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THE  FIRST  PERSON 
SINGULAR 

WILLIAM  ROSE  BENET 


THE  FIRST  PERSON 
SINGULAR 


BY 

WILLIAM   ROSE   BENET 


'  • 


NEW  Xr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


COPYRIGHT,    1922, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


PRINTED  IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


TO  MY  FRIEND 
DMITRI 


M295968 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  *AGB 

I     SUPPOSE  WE  HAVE  LUNCH  n 

II     RICHARD  TERRILL  SPEAKING  19 

III  THE  PERSISTENCE  OF  JANE  25 

IV  MR.  GARTNER  GETS  A  LETTER  33 

V      TUPTON    AND   THE   TEN  37 

VI    UNCLE  ARTHUR  THINKS  NOTHING  OF  IT      45 

VII    BESSIE,  SOLUS  50 

VIII    "THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"  54 

IX    ORDEAL  7° 

X    UNCLE     ARTHUR     SYMPATHIZES      WITH 

XERXES  91 

XI    HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS  100 

XII    THE  CHRISTIAN  MARTYR  OF  "THE  COLOS 
SEUM"  113 

XIII  Ms.  BY  ANON  125 

XIV  CORY  AT  CAN'T  REMEMBER  135 
XV    "I  AM  RICHARD  TERRILL"  144 

XVI    TRAGIC  INTERLUDE  155 

XVII    MR.  DUFFITT  is  QUITE  MISTAKEN  158 

XVIII     BESSIE  ENLIVENS  BREAKFAST  166 

XIX    ADELA  LOOKS  EIGHTEEN  173 

XX     SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  182 

XXI    A  QUIET  EVENING  194 

XXII    WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE  203 

XXIII  IT  COMES  TO  Miss  CROME  214 

XXIV  UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMBSHELL  221 

vii 


Till 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

XXV  CORYAT  is  INOPPORTUNE 

XXVI  A  FERMENT  OF  MINDS 

XXVII  THE  MISOGYNIST  CALLS 

XXVIII  A  REVELATION  AND  A  RESCUE 

XXIX  Miss  ANN  COLE  AGAIN 

XXX  SLADE  FACES  THE  INCREDIBLE 

XXXI  ADELA  THINKS  IT  OVER 

XXXII  AWAKENING 

XXXIII  UNMISTAKABLY  MRS.  VENTRESS 

XXXIV  THE  PERPLEXITY  OF  BEING  A  CROWD 
XXXV  UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  HOUR 

XXXVI  FINALLY,  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 


243 
248 

253 
26l 
266 
269 

275 
282 

287 
293 
295 


THE  FIRST  PERSON 
SINGULAR 


THE  FIRST  PERSON 
SINGULAR 

CHAPTER  I:    SUPPOSE  WE  HAVE  LUNCH 

FLORA  SIBLEY  stood  just  outside  the  bronze  doors  of 
the  north  entrance  to  the  New  York  Public  Library, 
drawing  on  her  suede  gloves.  From  the  top  of  the  marble 
steps  to  Forty-second  Street  she  surveyed  the  passersby 
without  any  real  apprehension  of  their  existence.  She  was 
slightly  above  the  average  height,  rather  slender.  She  wore, 
if  exactitude  be  demanded,  a  navy-blue  tricotine  and  a  smart 
black  hat,  the  latter  nicely  adjusted  upon  her  dexterously 
arranged  brown  hair.  She  had  a  straight  nose  and  a  pleas 
ing,  quizzical  mouth.  Her  eyebrows  were  pronouncedly 
curved,  giving  her  an  expression  of  surprise  even  when  she 
was  not  particularly  surprised.  She  had  dark  eyes. 

But  how  many  men  can  describe  a  woman  ?  I  shall  dodge 
hastily  behind  the  useful  phrase  "unique  charm".  Flora 
had  it.  It  was  enhanced  by  an  aloof,  slightly  astringent 
manner,  an  innate  shyness  she  had  never  quite  conquered 
from  girlhood. 

Flora  was  a  "p°P"  novelist — but  you  wouldn't  have  known 
it.  In  conversation  you  could  not  have  connected  her  with 
the  lapses  into  mediocrity  and  sentimentality  so  frequent 
in  her  books,  with  the  facile  literary  compromises  she  had 
made  for  so  many  years.  You  could  only  feel,  if  you  hap 
pened  to  know  who  she  was  at  a  dinner  or  a  reception,  that 
such  dual  personality  bordered  upon  the  incredible.  In 
conversation  she  could  be  witty,  even  brilliant.  It  was  her 

ii 


12  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

quotidian  return  to  the  typewriter,  upon  which  she  "dashed 
off"  both  first  drafts  and  revisions,  that  exerted  the  malign 
influence.  Then,  from  her  flying  ringers,  spattered  that 
treacle  of  romance  without  which  the  mere  bread  and  butter 
of  life  is,  to  most  of  us,  both  stale  and  unprofitable.  Most  of 
us  were,  after  all,  responsible  for  Flora. 

By  the  courage  and  cleverness  of  her  own  brain  she  had 
forged  a  weapon  of  style.  After  persistent  unsuccess  she 
had  also  forged  the  tools  to  blunt  and  dull  it.  Finally  she 
had  fashioned  her  literary  self  not  in  her  own  but  in  the 
Public's  image.  Yet  nobility  persisted  in  her  face,  for  she 
was  fundamentally  a  fighter,  possessed  of  a  natural  spiritual 
courage  against  odds.  She  had  merely  misapplied  it. 

Her  maternal  instinct  was  strong.  She  often  pitied  other 
people  to  excruciation,  quite  sincerely.  Her  characters  be 
came  to  her  as  the  people  she  pitied.  Then  she  could  refuse 
them  nothing,  money,  children,  countryhouses,  candy-box 
love-affairs,  hairbreadth  rescues,  hummingbirds  and  roses. 
It  wasn't  good  for  them.  And  any  social  criticism  implied 
in  the  works  of  this  authoress  was  always  smoothed  over 
with  a  large  solution  of  faith,  hope  and  charity.  Some 
problems  necessitated  laying  it  on  pretty  thick. 

Flora  was  thirty-five.  She  had  begun  writing  novels  ten 
years  ago  and  had  produced  just  exactly  ten.  She  had  made 
a  pot  of  money.  O  Flora !  But  I  like  Flora  very  much,  in 
spite  of  my  natural  brutality.  You  couldn't  help  it. 

So  she  stood,  half-smiling  at  her  own  thoughts,  at  the  top 
of  marble  steps  to  a  tawdry  newspaper-blown  street.  Any 
man  in  love  with  her,  as  he  looked  at  her,  might  have  felt 
his  pulse  accelerate.  Her  small  pugnacious  chin  was  tilted 
upward. 

Wherever  she  went,  would  not  her  thousand  photo 
graphic  likenesses  follow  her?  But  that  was  what  gave  her 
the  half -smile.  She  recalled  some  of  them.  She  took  such 
an  abominable  picture.  She  remembered  her  own  particular 
gallery  of  them:  Orphant  Annie,  The  Pride  of  the  Harem, 
The  Super-Clubwoman,  Pride's  Purge,  Maybelle  the  Movie 


SUPPOSE  WE  HAVE  LUNCH  13 

Star,  Old  Mother  Hubbard,  Vampirina,  She  herself  had 
bestowed  the  titles.  No,  they'd  never  in  the  world ! 

She  grasped  her  small  suede  handbag  with  decision.  Sun 
light  and  a  breeze  brought  colour  to  her  cheek.  Her  air  was 
distinguished.  She  was  almost  beautiful. 

She  was  beautiful  to  a  certain  straw-hatted  gentleman  in 
heather-mixture  cheviot,  pausing  in  his  stride  along  the 
opposite  side  of  Forty-Second  Street.  He  halted  in  front 
of  a  window  displaying  a  large  oil  portrait  of  an  atrabilious 
individual  whose  painted  nose  supported  a  pair  of  imita 
tion  tortoiseshell  eyeglasses.  The  eyeglasses  were  real.  That 
was  what  people  said  when  they  loitered  in  front  of  the  win 
dow.  But  Richard  Coryat's  back  was  toward  it. 

He  got  himself  immediately  across  the  street  between  a 
Dodge,  a  cross-town  car  and  a  brown  and  white  taxi.  He 
met  Flora  as  she  descended  to  the  pavement. 

"I  called  last  night,  but " 

"O,  I'm  so  sorry.  A  friend  of  mine  was  ill  and  leaving 
town.  (Well,  Lucy  had  certainly  been  leaving  town,  in 
a  month,  and  she  looked  ill!)  I  should  have  called  you  up, 
or  left  a  message.  I  forgot.  How  are  you  ?" 

"Splendidly — now,"  he  couldn't  help  adding.  " Which  way 
are  you  going?  Mightn't  we ?" 

"Well,  to  tell  the  truth,"  Flora  smiled,  "I'm  sure  I  don't 

know.      I've   just   been   looking)  up   something   in   there, 
j » 

"Won't  you  lunch  with  me?" 

"No — I'm  afraid  that yes,  suppose  we  do.  Dutch. 

I'm  an  independent  person,  you  know,  Mr.  Coryat." 

After  all,  why  not?  She  had  been  rather  mean  to  him 
probably.  She  could  go  back  to  her  Gramercy  Park  apart 
ment  or  to  the  National  Arts  Club.  But  after  all,  why  not? 
He  looked  agreeable.  He  was  interesting  if  too  persistent. 
They  were  at  the  corner.  His  fingers  barely  touched  her  el 
bow  as  they  crossed  Forty-Second  Street.  They  walked 
slowly  up  the  Avenue. 

"You  got  my  note  about  'Golden  Windfall'  ?" 


14  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Her  eyes  had  turned  toward  him,  her  head  was  slightly 
bent. 

"Yes.  I'm  glad  you  agree  with  me.  But  I  knew  you'd 
appreciate  it." 

"Why?" 

"Why,  because — oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  your  sort  of  a 
book." 

"How  about  my  own  books?" 

"Well,  to  make  a  horrible  confession,  I've  been  so  busy 
this  last  month  getting  settled  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to 
read  them  yet.  And  you  see  I  was  away  from  America 
for  ten  years.  I'm  frightfully  ignorant  about  your  work 
really.  But  I  certainly  intend  to  remedy  that." 

"Don't!" 

"Why  not?" 

"They're  awful!" 

"I  refuse  to  believe  it !"  he  laughed. 

"They  are,  they're  atrocious.  I'm  sick  of  them.  It's  your 
fault  though." 

"How?" 

"Terrill's  book.  Don't  you  know  that  you  and  he  are 
responsible  for  a  positively  suicidal  mood  on  the  part  of 
this  particular  lady  novelist?" 

"Good  Lord,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  don't  be  scared,"  she  laughed,  and  then  was  grave. 
"I  simply  mean  I  seem  to  have  come  to  a  turning-point. 
'Golden  Windfall'  did  it.  Of  course  you  couldn't  know. 
And  you  couldn't  know  that  I  opened  Terrill's  book  with 
a  feeling  of  great  superiority  and  a  decided  aversion  to  him. 
But,  it's  curious,  he  has  convinced  me  as  no  one  else  has 
ever  been  able  to  convince  me  of  the  obligations  of  a  talent. 
'The  artistic  conscience' !  ( She  laughed  shortly — rather 
harshly.)  You  see  I  had  become  pretty  case-hardened,  I 
guess.  And  then,  of  course,  I  have  made  money.  And 
there's  so  much  trifling  and  idling  in  the  name  of  Art.  So 
much  buncombe.  But  he  got  me." 

"But  I  know  you're  exaggerating " 


SUPPOSE  WE  HAVE  LUNCH  15 

Flora  gave  him  a  swift  side-glance. 

"No,"  she  almost  snapped,  with  an  expressionless  face. 
"It's  worse  than  you  think." 

He  changed  the  topic  to  suggest  a  tea-room  on  West 
Forty-sixth  Street.  Seated  at  a  corner  table  near  the  win 
dow,  they  confided  the  appeasement  of  their  hunger  to  an 
entirely  indifferent  waitress.  She  returned  in  five  minutes 
having  forgotten  the  order.  "What  was  it  you  said  ?"  They 
told  her  all  over  again. 

Flora  opened  her  handbag  and  scrutinized  its  interior 
intently,  moving  her  face  about  with  great  seriousness.  Rich 
ard  Coryat  realised,  when  she  raised  her  eyes,  that  he  had 
been  staring  at  her.  He  thought  he  had  rarely  seen  such 
a  thoroughly  honest  gaze.  Yet  it  was  veiled  to  him.  Her 
own  work  must  be  infinitely  better  than  she  thought. 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Flora,  and  then  suddenly  curtailed 
her  sentence.  What  she  had  been  going  to  ask  would  never 
do.  She  must  escape  him.  Yes,  even  after  his  introducing 
her  to  Terr  ill's  book.  He  had  become  altogether  too  inter 
ested.  She  wished,  in  fact,  to  get  rid  of  all  of  them,  editors, 
publishers,  literary  acquaintances.  The  thing  to  do  was  to 

make  a  complete  break.  She  would  go  back .  She  as 

suddenly  smiled  to  herself  at  this  persistent  invasion  of  her 
creative  imagination. 

The  fish  and  salad  having  made  its  appearance,  with  rolls 
and  pots  of  tea,  she  listened  to  Coryat  as  he  talked  of  Paris 
and  the  Riviera.  His  voice  was  light,  high,  with  a  certain 
harsh,  hurt  strain  in  it.  He  told  some  interesting  stories. 
He  became  animated  as  he  talked,  his  greenish  blue  eyes 
sparkled.  His  lean  brown  face  with  its  deep  but  not  promi 
nent  jaw  and  somewhat  broad  and  uptilted  nose  was  at 
tractively  homely.  His  light  brown  hair  was  thick,  difficult 
to  part  properly  and  inclined  toward  curliness.  He  had  a 
characteristic  habit  of  tilting  his  head  upward  and  back  with 
great  suddenness.  He  betrayed  nervousness  by  the  restless 
gestures  of  his  hands.  His  ears  were  too  large,  his  mouth 
was  broad  and  firm,  half-hidden  beneath  a  close-cropped 


16  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

mustache  that  had  come  out  sandy.  He  was  not  above  the 
average  height  and,  in  the  street,  save  for  the  keenness  of 
his  gaze,  you  might  easily  have  passed  him  as  the  average 
man. 

"What  do  you  intend  to  do  now,  Mr.  Coryat?" 

"Not  foreign  correspondence  any  more  at  any  rate.  I 
don't  really  know.  I'm  tired  of  journalism.  This  inheri 
tance  I  told  you  about .  Of  course  I  really  intend  to 

write,  but  I  don't  know  exactly  what.  There's  a  different 
feel  to  things  over  here,  on  first  reacquaintance  at  any  rate. 
Seems  so  much  all  Business.  But  then  Europe's  a  ruin. 
France  is  about  the  only  real  intellectual  centre.  But  the 
War's  spoiled  most  things.  I  certainly  got  fed  up  on  fracas — 
as  well  as  on  discipline — in  the  Legion.  Yet  it  seems  to  me 
I  hate  worse  the  stupor  I  find  over  here — a  stupor  as  to 
ideas.  Of  course  that  sounds  superior.  I  don't  mean  it 
so.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  getting  back  my  old  love  for 
New  York,  love  like  hatred.  It  certainly  hasn't  lost  its 
fascination,  though  it's  changed.  But  socially  and  politically 
and  so  on,  doesn't  the  country  seem  dead  to  you  ?  Look  at 
this  administration." 

"Well,  I  admit  we  seem  to  care  very  little  for  personality 
over  here.  At  least  now.  It  wasn't  so,  certainly.  But  in 
dustrialism  has  us,  and  moulds.  Take  our  writers.  Well," 
she  smiled  ruefully,  "take  me.  I'm  a  grand  example  of  the 
American  idea  of  success,  in  literature.  You'd  better  go 
home  and  read  my  books — if  you  can  stand  it." 

"Oh,  come !"  he  said  unbelievingly ;  "but  if  standardisation 
is  the  cry  to-day,  as  it  certainly  was  in  the  War,  I  think  just 
the  same  that  we're  bound  to  swing  out  of  it  again.  There 
are  a  number  of  signs.  Certainly  order  and  system  under 
special  privilege  and  convention  are  really  figments  of  the 
imagination — any  real  order,  any  real  system " 

"You're  a  Socialist,  are  you?" 

"No.  Not  an  anything-ist.  Satisfactory  social  systems  are 
a  problem.  The  point  is,  under  any  system,  the  attitude 
of  the  people.  I'm  certainly  not  for  the  present  amount  of 


SUPPOSE  WE  HAVE  LUNCH  17 

special  privilege.  Yet — there's  personal  liberty  too.  Maybe 
the  anarchists  have,  after  all,  the  best  doctrine  for  the  indi 
vidual  soul.  Only  I  don't  believe  it.  I  believe  in  some  sys 
tem.  Not  too  much.  Socialism  might  easily  become  as  auto 
cratic  as  capitalism,  in  a  different  way.  Here's  what  I 
mean.  The  spirit  in  this  country.  I  believe  you're  right 
about  the  individual.  Who  wants  another  war?  I  certainly 
don't.  War  is  a  rotten  thing.  I've  seen  it  and  I  know.  But 
in  a  crisis  like  a  great  war  there  comes  certainly  a  new  spirit, 
a  solidarity.  Something  more  than  mere  comfort  and  ease. 
An  ideal.  Something  burning.  Now  that  that's  left  us " 

"Maybe  it  hasn't !" 

"Yes,  I  think  it  has.  The  present  lies  with  the  individual. 
If  I'm  purged  of  any  jingoism  I  had,  as  well  as  of  old-line 
socialism — for  I  had  both  in  a  sense — I'm  also  against  the 
moulds  of  this  present  phase  of  industrialism.  I'm  for  the 
growth  of  the  individual  now  as  the  only  thing  that  will 
resurrect  us  from  the  grave  we've  fallen  into  with  our  dead. 
And  I  don't  mean  the  old  Puritanical  idea  of  character  either. 
I  mean  the  life  that  makes  itself  felt  by  courage  and  pioneer 
ing,  by  thinking  for  itself — not  by  mob  formulas." 

Like  the  opinions  voiced  in  most  casual  conversation,  his 
own  tripped  and  stumbled  over  each  other.  You  could  have 
annihilated  some  of  his  easy  summaries.  Flora,  like  most 
of  us,  picked  out  merely  the  phrases  that  applied  to  her  own 
immediate  problem.  She  liked  the  eagerness  in  his  eyes  and 
a  certain  suppressed  scorn  in  his  voice.  Also,  he  seemed  to 
know  the  names  of  things. 

"So  you're  an  individualist?" 

"H'm,"  he  drew  his  compressed  lips  inward.  "I  don't 
know.  At  present  we're  all  slaves  to  mechanism.  Perhaps 
more  so  because  we're  a  democracy,  we're  f  ormularised.  The 
proper  expression  of  personality — the  characteristic  differ 
ences  between  human  beings — well,  call  it  the  first  person 
singular,  in  two  senses,  is  what  interests  me  most.  Over 
here  I  find  types,  not  people.  In  Europe,  and  even — para 
doxically — in  the  war,  despite  all  the  regimenting  of  every- 


18  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

thing,  and  the  discipline — I  found  people.  It  was  due,  I 
guess,  to  the  crisis.  Men  and  women  revealed  themselves. 
Now,  over  here  at  least,  they've  crept  back  into  convention. 
There's  more  real  life  in  Minetta  Lane  than  all  upper  New 
York.  There's  a  type  of  business  man,  a  type  of  society 
woman,  a  type  of  flapper,  yes,  and  a  type  of  everything  else. 
You  say  there's  a  type  of  American  novelist.  There's  the 
suburb  type  and  the  city  type.  It  may  be  silly  of  me — or  it 
may  be  a  snap-judgment — but  I  want  people,  not  types." 

"People,"  murmured  Flora  Sibley.  "Yes.  Real  people. 
I  want  them  too." 

A  silence  fell  between  them  as  he  drew  out  a  silver  ciga 
rette  case,  chose  a  cigarette,  and  tapped  it  upon  the  table. 


CHAPTER  II:    RICHARD  TERRILL  SPEAKING 

MR.  CORYAT  was  interesting,  yes.  But  the  fact  re 
mained  that  she  wanted  to  escape  him,  to  escape  them 
all.  She  sat  at  the  window  of  her  sitting-room  looking  out 
over  green,  sunny  Gramercy  Park.  The  things  she  had  lived 
for  seemed  now  particularly  worthless.  She  had  fulfilled 
certain  responsibilities,  of  course,  paid  certain  debts.  That 
much  was  true,  but . 

Why  had  he  happened  to  lend  her  that  book?  She  didn't 
know.  But  wasn't  she  glad  after  all?  She  knew  she  was. 
However,  the  mental  disgust  returned.  She  could  see  her 
self  as  she  must  have  looked  at  two  of  that  last  Sunday 
morning,  when  she  had  finished  the  last  page  of  "Golden 
Windfall."  She  could  see  herself  getting  up  from  the  dav 
enport,  walking  slowly  toward  the  open  window,  standing 
staring  out  upon  the  mysteriously  moonlit  park.  The  mental 
nausea.  Good  Heavens!  Well,  it  was  true.  And  it  was 
the  test. 

She  had  never  heard  of  the  writer  before.  Richard  Ter- 
rill.  Richard  Terrill.  What  in  heaven's  name  was  the  mat 
ter  with  American  publishers  not  to  have  heard  of  him? 
Well,  they  would  now.  That  was  her  first  duty,  to  spread 
knowledge  of  his  book.  He  must  be  an  Englishman.  It  was 
an  English  book.  How  old  was  he,  she  wondered.  How  in 
heaven's  name  had  he  managed  to  show  her  her  very  own 
problem  so  keenly  yet  so  kindly? 

First  emotional  impressions  did  not  live.  But  he  had  said 
something  living.  The  truth  of  it  was  burned  in  her  heart. 
Yet,  on  analysis,  it  was  simple  enough  and  something  she 
had  seen  all  along.  However,  the  words  were  now  a  part 
of  her,  they  had  irrevocably  changed  her. 

19 


20  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

The  puppet  procession  began  again  to  pass  through  the 
clear  light  of  what  he  had  said.  The  puppets  proceeded  out 
of  the  shadow,  showed  in  the  light  for  an  instant  with  a 
startling  clarity  of  detail,  sank  again  into  the  shadow.  She 
had  been  so  proud  of  Sallie  Pryor — at  least  leave  her  Sallie 
Pryor!  Sallie  stood  in  that  light  with  the  jerky  gestures  of 
a  grimacing  doll,  leered,  disappeared  grotesquely.  The  light 
was  utterly  pitiless. 

Clarriby  Null  of  "The  Wiseacres".  Clarriby  came  creep 
ing  avoidingly  into  the  light — stood  and  blinked  in  it.  The 
light  began  to  blacken  his  edges.  It  burst  through.  It  con 
sumed  him  with  little  eating  flames.  He  was  a  slight  shower 
of  infinitesimal  ashes. 

Tortured,  lugubrious  shapes,  pitifully  processional.  Bar 
ker  Straik,  George  Phillips,  little  laughing  Nelly  Madox, 
Jane  Orgue,  the  Cranes,  the  Busbees — all  incredibly  gal 
vanized  painted  pasteboard.  Or  floating  ghosts  that  faded 
piecemeal  in  the  light.  The  words  of  their  wraithlike  voices 
hummed  about  her.  The  lives  of  her  puppets  swept  round 
her  like  a  sea — voices  of  age,  of  childhood,  from  the  froth 
and  ferment  of  her  brain.  The  skein  of  all  their  lives  hung 
on  a  hook  in  the  blank  wall  of  her  mind.  She  had  tugged 
threads  from  it,  knotted  them  into  patterns,  patterns  that 
also  passed  into  that  light  and  were  consumed  like  a  spider- 
web  under  a  burning-glass.  It  was  too  awful ! 

It  was  desperately  unkind  not  even  to  leave  her  Sallie 
Pryor.  An  enormous  public  had  liked  Sallie.  One  hun 
dred  thousand  copies  of  "The  June  Bug"  had  been  printed. 
Sallie  had  made  her  fortune.  The  light  was  cruel,  unkind. 
The  man's  book  was  hideous,  untrue.  The  man  was  an 
idiot,  or  simply  an  ineffectual  angel.  What  he  saw  as  art 
was  really  a  supersensitive  and  impossibly  stern  avoidance 
of  the  compromises  necessary  in  real  life.  Life  was  simple. 
You  needed  distraction  and  money.  You  worked  for  money. 
You  made  the  most  of  your  ability.  The  public  would  buy 
certain  things.  You  gave  them  that.  No  one  who  had  not 
come  the  hard,  practical  road  to  financial  success  could  pos- 


RICHARD  TERRILL  SPEAKING  21 

sibly  know  how  sweet  it  was  to  have  fought  your  way,  met 
your  obligations,  gained  once  more  ease,  leisure,  a  bright 
world  of  royalties,  nice  clothes,  decorous  applause.  And 

no  one  who  had  not  been  through !  Her  indignant 

thought  paused. 

But  she  had  made  her  way,  at  least.  She  saw  perfectly 
clearly  the  road  behind  her.  A  girl's  idealistic  decision  and 
disastrous  experiment;  the  escape;  persistent  brave  effort; 
the  man,  the  woman  who  had  helped  her.  The  development 
of  a  gift  at  first  desperately  meagre.;  the  bleak  interim; 
finally — what  the  world  knew  as  "success".  Suddenly,  one 
day,  the  grasp  of  the  box-of-tricks,  the  formula.  Labour 
ing  over  the  denouement  of  her  tenth  short  story,  she  had 
seen.  She  was  perfectly  conscious  at  the  time, — she  must 
have  been;  yet,  somehow,  not  at  all  conscious.  She  knew 
that  it  was  not  her  idea  of  good  writing,  of  what  she  could 
really  do.  But  the  desperation  of  her  mind  at  the  time 
stifled  the  thought.  And  the  formula  had  proved  correct. 
Read  the  reviews ! 

Then  why  had  this  book  of  Terrill's  intruded  to  shatter 
the  dream?  It  was  surely  a  beneficent  dream  enough.  A 
world  of  bright  laughter,  sound  sermons,  happy  people, 
wholesome  moods.  A  beneficent  dream  that  had  cheered  the 
lives  of  thousands !  She  smiled  grimly.  That  phrase  was 
from  the  jacket  of  "Rosemary  and  Rue".  But  wasn't  it 
true?  It  had.  Always  the  happy  ending.  Always  the 
sweetmeats  and  bonbons  tucked  into  the  lavendered  folds 
of  the  story.  Always  the  delight  in  life — or  had  it  been 
merely  in  "laying  it  on  thick"?  Had  she  grown  to  believe 
it  was  life?  She  must  have.  It  was  accepted  as  life.  It 
was  thoroughly  wholesome  and  uplifting.  Good  heavens ! 

That  girl  had  been  so  excruciatingly  unhappy.  Wistful, 
hard-worked,  hungry,  romantic,  sentimental, — then  crushed. 
Then  so  bravely  trying  to  build  up  the  fairy  story  that  might 
have  come  true.  She  had  thought,  at  least,  to  make  it  come 
true  for  others.  Then  how  had  she  lost  the  substance  for 
the  shadow? 


22  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

A  long  accumulation  of  small  scraps  of  advice  and  coun 
sel  came  to  her,  from  many  a  successful  writer,  from  many 
a  seasoned  editor ;  advice  to  which  she  hungrily  listened,  ad 
vice  that  had  finally  crystallised  itself  into  The  Formula. 
She  remembered  now  beginnings  in  so  different  a  vein.  Two 
pages  of  that  third,  often-rejected  story  for  instance,  "The 
Barrier".  She  closed  her  eyes  to  see  the  two  figures  in 
those  pages  pass  under  that  scathing  light  of  Ten-ill's  words. 
Of  all  the  characters  her  teeming  thought  had  created  those 
two  alone  did  not  move  like  automata.  Their  small  but 
distinct  voices  rang  true  in  her  inner  ear.  She  had  finally 
torn  that  story  into  strips,  and  from  strips  into  fine  frag 
ments. 

That  girl;  the  girl  of  those  days,  lean,  suffering,  puzzled, 
embittered,  in  her  frayed  grey  wrapper  and  tousled  hair, 
scribbling  desperately  in  that  back  hall  room  of  Mrs.  Mur- 
trie's,  writing  on  the  varnish-peeled  wash  hand-stand,  the 
big  white  crockery  basin  and  pitcher  (with  their  impossible 
red-lily  decoration)  standing  beside  her  upon  the  thread 
bare  piece  of  carpet  to  which  she  had  removed  them.  Oh 
(suddenly),  to  have  her  back,  that  thin,  passionate,  intoler 
ably  shy,  madly  battling  girl  of  ten  years  ago ! 

Well,  to  work!  That  manuscript  in  the  binder  had  to  be 
shipped  off  to  Harvey  Wick  of  "The  Criterion".  She 
rose  from  her  cretonned  chair,  unlocked  her  desk,  and  spent 
the  next  fifteen  minutes  or  so  correcting  a  few  sentences. 
Then  she  reached  for  the  notebook  she  had  tossed  on  the 
table  and  worked  steadily  for  half  an  hour  "pointing  up"  the 
reference  to  the  Boxer  outbreak.  It  was  four  o'clock  when 
she  had  finished,  and  she  had  invited  Mr.  Seelye  to  tea  at 
the  National  Arts  at  4:30.  He  was  connected  with  the  Bo- 
zarre  Picture  Corporation.  The  moving-picture  rights  of 
"Rosemary  and  Rue"  were  under  consideration.  Flora  Sib- 
ley  sighed,  closed  and  locked  her  big  desk,  and  called  softly 

for  Marie. 

*  *  * 


RICHARD  TERRILL  SPEAKING  23 

Flora  nibbled  a  butter-thin  and  listened  to  Mr.  Irwin 
Seelye.  His  face  distinctly  resembled  a  Regensburg  cigar 
sign.  It  had  creamed  lobster  and  "The  Follies  of  1920" 
Written  large  all  over  it.  Mr.  Seelye  inhaled  his  tea. 

"They'll  eat  it!"  pronounced  Mr.  Seelye.  "See  if  they 
don't.  They'll  eat  it.  Home  and  mother."  He  beamed 
gelatinously  at  her. 

"The  only  trouble  being,"  said  Flora  sweetly,  "that  I've 
chucked  the  whole  business  now,  Mr.  Seelye." 

"You  mean  the  royalties?    Well  now  I'll  tell  you " 

"No,  I  mean  I'm  tired  of  the  whole  business.  I'm  going 
away." 

"Oh!  Oh,  vacation.  Course  you're  tired.  Should  think 
so.  'Mount  of  work  you  turn  out.  But  you  needn't  worry 
'bout  the  picture  till  you  get  good  and  rested.  We  could  go 
right  ahead  with  it.  We'd  have  to  do  that  anyway." 

"You  don't  understand  me.  I've  just  delivered  my  last 
novel  to  Harvey  Wick  according  to  contract.  I  had  to. 
But  I'm  out  of  it  now.  I've  decided  not  to  sell  any  more 
movie  rights." 

"Well,  what  is  your  figure?" 

"I  must  repeat  that  you  misunderstand  me,  Mr.  Seelye. 
The  rights  to  'Rosemary  and  Rue'  simply  aren't  on  the 
market.  I  should  have  told  you  that  at  once — but  you  looked 
tired  and  I  wanted  you  to  have  some  tea.  Pardon  me  if  I 
haven't  broken  it  especially  gently." 

"Well,  what  d'you — why,  but — but,  Miss  Sibley,  you 
really  don't  mean  that?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  do.  You  see  I'm  just  sickened  suddenly — 
of  the  whole  thing." 

"But  of  what?" 

"Of  writing  rot,  of  purveying  rot,  of  stuffing  the  public 
with  rot.  I'm  through." 

The  belligerent  small  chin  was  in  evidence.  Flora's  eyes 
stared  straight  ahead  of  her  at  nothing  in  particular. 

"Well,  now  of  course,  Miss  Sibley,"  the  tone  was  meant 
to  be  pacifying.  "You  know  really  that  there's  no  reason 


24  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

at  all  for  you  to  talk  that  way.  Not  the  slightest.  Look 
how  your  work  goes.  Look  how  good  it  is.  Haven't  'I 
just  been  telling  you  that  the  public'11-eat  up  'Rosemary  and 
Rue'?" 

"Yes,  that's  the  whole  trouble.     I  believe  they  would." 

"But  isn't  this  reasonable!"  Flora  suddenly  sat  up  very 
straight  and  looked  at  him  with  clear  wideieyes.  "Isn't  this 
reasonable.  I  have  made  all  the  money  I  want.  That,  as  all 
of  us  know  is  'the  object  in  view'.  Well,  I've  made  enough. 
But  I've  just  come  to  see  what  I've  made  it  by.  We  needn't 
go  into  that.  I'm  through,  that's  all." 

"Sorry,"  she  said  a  few  moments  later,  at  the  door»of  the 
National  Arts,  to  this  rather  dazed  myrmidon  of  the  pro 
ducers.  "I  see  you  don't  quite  understand  it.  Perhaps  I'm 
wrong.  Only  I  don't  think  so.  Good-bye!" 

Mr.  Irwin  Seelye  paused  to  light  a  fat  cigar  as  he  reached 
Fourth  Avenue.  He  tilted  it  toward  the  not- far-distant 
Metropolitan  Tower  and  looked  vaguely  up  and  down  the 
street. 

"Now  I  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "just  what  she  is 
holding  out  for !  Well, — she's  bound  to  snap  out  of  it." 

He  began  to  walk  slowly  south  on  Fourth  Avenue.  He 
continued  to  wonder. 

Flora,  meanwhile,  returning  to  her  apartment,  called  in 
Marie.  It  was  not  on  the  matter  of  dinner.  Later  she  held 
several  telephone  conversations  and  made  several  tappoint- 
ments,  one  with  her  friend  Phil  Bruston  of  the  Park  Avenue 
Bank.  Fortunately  he  was  not  out  of  town.  She  experi 
enced  a  strange  thrill  in  the  thought  that  she  was  setting 
wheels  in  motion.  She  knew  now  that  she  had  finally  de 
cided. 


CHAPTER  III:    THE  PERSISTENCE  OF  JANE 

THREE  weeks  later,  in  his  rooms  on  the  opposite  side 
of  Gramercy  Park,  Richard  Coryat  was  filling  a  pipe 
from  a  large  glass  humidor  on  the  table  in  his  sitting-room. 
He  had  seen  Flora  several  times  lately.  Now,  it  seemed, 
she  was  gone.  Still  vivid  before  the  lens  of  his  thought 
floated  a  likeness  of  her  face.  He  liked  smart  black  hats 
and  blue  tricotine.  He  liked  peculiarly-arched  eyebrows.  He 

liked  dark  eyes.     He  liked .     His  mouth  drew  down 

lugubriously  at  the  corners.  He  exhaled  through  his  nose 
sharply  and  shook  his  head.  He  shrugged.  He  went  over 
and  relapsed  deeply  into  the  Chesterfield  before  the  empty 
fireplace.  He  sat  puffing  at  a  pipe  he  had  forgotten  to  light. 

His  face  sharpened  as  he  sat  in  thought,  his  cheeks  drew 
gaunt.  His  left  arm  came  up  on  the  back  of  the  Chester 
field,  and  his  head  leaned  upon  his  left  hand.  His  hand 
kept  smoothing  back  his  hair  with  a  softly  grinding  motion 
of  the  heel  of  it  upon  his  left  temple.  His  teeth  showed  as 
he  bit  the  stem  of  his  pipe  again  and  again. 

Flora — and  Jane.  He  wondered  what  on  earth  Jane 
could  be  doing  now.  He  wondered  for  the  ten  thousand 
two  hundred  and  twenty-fifth  time  in  eighteen  years  whether 
he  had  acted  like  a  cad.  He  didn't  see  how  he  had.  But 
he  wondered.  That  the  ache  should  be  so  keen — still — at 
times — what  did  that  imply?  Well  then,  the  implication 
was  correct.  He  still  loved  her. 

But  was  it  that  ?  A  man's  physical  hunger  was  so  treacher 
ous;  and  he  had  avoided  women.  Was  it  that?  Could  it 
be  that  only?  Was  it  the  old  possessiveness,  that  issue  on 
which  they  had  broken?  No.  That  wasn't  true.  It  simply 
wasn't.  He  had  learned  that  lesson. 

25 


26  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Had  he?  And  should  he  want  to  find  her?  He  cer 
tainly  wondered  what  she  was  doing. 

She  had  dismissed  him.  He  was  young — what  a  kid  he 
was  then,  what  an  infant !  What  a  goings-on  he  had  made 
within  himself  about  his  pride!  What  a  horrible  thing, 
and  what  an  incredibly  childish  thing  it  had  been  anyway! 
How  proud  they  both  were!  As  Lucifer.  Lucifer  had 
brought  the  light.  Lucifer  matches.  His  pipe  wasn't  lit! 
He  felt  along  the  table  backing  the  couch  for  matches.  The 
tobacco  seethed  as  it  caught  and  he  popped  his  lips  with  the 
first  exhalations. 

Nineteen  years  ago  he  had  been  one  of  the  most  prom 
ising  young  newspapermen  in  New  York.  A  year  later,  in 
considerable  bitterness  of  spirit,  he  had  decided  to  leave  the 
United  States  altogether.  He  had. 

He  had  gone  first  to  South  America  on  a  fruit  company 
steamer.  He  had  knocked  around  Rio  and  then  sailed  for 
France.  Journalistic  facility,  an  ability  to  live  through  dis 
comforts  and  rough  experiences,  kept  him  on  his  feet.  Also, 
despite  his  sorrow,  he  possessed  an  intense  interest  in  life. 
He  enjoyed  new  sights  and  new  people.  Once  in  France  he 
had  gained  a  livelihood  by  writing  for  the  Paris  edition  of 
a  Chicago  paper.  He  applied  himself  to  a  work  of  fiction 
and  went  to  England.  It  found  a  publisher  and  actually 
brought  him  some  royalties.  He  lived  in  cheap  lodgings  and 
made  enough  pickings  from  journalism  to  support  mind  and 
body  for  several  years.  This  whole  period  of  his  life,  how 
ever,  was  somewhat  depressing  to  remember.  But  his  fasci 
nation  with  the  human  comedy  had  pulled  him  through.  He 
had  made  friends  and  acquaintances.  He  had  returned  to 
France  before  the  War,  sporadically  affluent,  in  general  im 
pecunious.  When  the  War  broke  out  he  had  enlisted  in  the 
Foreign  Legton  at  the  instance  and  for  the  companionship  of 
a  friend.  He  had  certainly  seen  action?  He  had  been 
wounded  and  had  spent  several  months  in  a  French  hospital. 
After  the  Armistice  he  had  gone  back  to  journalism.  The 
War  had  not  improved  his  position.  For  all  the  rapid-fire 


THE  PERSISTENCE  OF  JANE  27 

work  he  had  turned  out  in  fifteen  years  no  literary  reputa 
tion  was  his.  His  one  novel  was  now  completely  forgotten. 
He  wondered  to-day,  rather  dismally,  how  it  had  ever  man 
aged  to  sell  at  all. 

He  had  expected  things  of  the  War.  A  gallant  end  in  ac 
tion.  The  nearest  he  got  to  it  was  being  buried  by  a  shell 
in  an  abri.  After  that  it  seemed  to  him  that  anticlimax  piled 
upon  anticlimax,  until,  after  he  recovered  from  his  wound, 
he  was  reduced  to  the  position  of  a  mere  military  clerk  in 
a  Paris  office.  Once  out  of  uniform  he  had  begun  to  write 
again,  from  his  war  experience  and  from  various  memories 
of  his  intermittent  wanderings  before  the  war,  in  Spain, 
in  South  America,  in  Algeria. 

One  morning  he  had  experienced  mental  paralysis  in  the 
news  that  his  Aunt  Clara  Bowers  of  Pittsburgh  had  chosen 
to  remember  him  upon  her  deathbed  to  this  end,  that,  "I  give, 
devise  and  bequeath  to  my  nephew,  Richard  Ripston  Coryat, 
his  heirs  and  assigns  forever,  one  undivided  half  of  the  re 
mainder  of  my  estate  real  and  personal."  Aunt  Clara  had 
died  a  wealthy  old  lady.  It  came  to  ten  thousand  a  year, 
that  remainder.  He  had  forgotten  all  about  Aunt  Clara. 
Hadn't  seen  her  since  he  was  a  freckled  boy  of  ten  who 
used  to  greatly  prize  the  pumpkin  pie  she  was  fond  of  mak 
ing.  The  only  reason  he  could  attribute  in  his  own  mind 
for  this  startling  bequest  was  a  remark  that  floated  back 
through  the  shimmering  mists  of  time,  made  by  him  in  a 
voice  breaking, — no,  not  with  emotion, — with  the  advance  of 
young  manhood :  "Gee,  Aunt  Clara,  I  like  your  pies !" 

It  was  the  truth.  And  it  was  all  he  could  remember.  Out 
of  the  conquered  past  unravishable  financial  relief  born  of 
an  early  passion  for  pie.  Superb  irony.  He  hardly  remem 
bered  even  what  Aunt  Clara  had  looked  like,  save  that  she 
wore  a  silk  shawl  and  was  rather  stout,  and  that  her  house 
on  a  hill  had  two  cast-iron  dogs  on  the  front  lawn.  Well, 
God  bless  her  anyway!  He  pinched  himself  a  number  of 
times.  It  was,  to  him,  one  of  the  oddest  things  that  could 
possibly  have  happened.  Which  was,  after  all,  a  strange 


28  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

belief  to  be  cherished  by  one  so  familiar  with  the  news  of 
the  world  in  the  daily  press. 

For  a  while  after  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  take  him 
self  seriously.  He  strove  hard  enough,  of  course,  to  remem 
ber  Aunt  Clara  and  evoke  some  more  fundamental  reason 
than  pie  for  the  bequest.  He  tried  to  imagine  he  had  always 
been  her  favourite  nephew — that  she  had  loved  little  boys — 
that  his  father  had  been  her  favourite  brother.  He  simply 
couldn't  remember.  His  mother  had  still  been  alive  when 
Aunt  Clara  was  indulging  her  culinary  propensities.  His 
father  had  followed  her  to  the  grave  while  Richard  was  a 
senior  in  high  school.  Uncle  Jim  had  taken  him  to  live  in 
Brooklyn.  Aunt  Clara  was  never  mentioned  by  Uncle  Jim. 
They  were  not  related  and  did  not  like  each  other.  Aunt 
Clara  had  completely  faded  out  of  all  recollection.  She  had 
never  written,  certainly.  Yet  she  had  been  "of  sound  and 
disposing  mind,  and  capable  of  executing  a  valid  deed". 
There  was  no  flaw  in  the  disposition  of  her  property.  There 
you  were. 

It  irritated  him  in  a  manner  he  discovered  to  be  petty,  that 
after  a  tragic  love-affair  and  an  ensuing  life  of  rather 
threadbare  grimness,  after  a  war  hallucination  that  broke 
down  in  absurd  unheroic  anticlimax,  after  days  and  weeks 
and  months  he  so  well  remembered  in  which  he  had  seemed 
the  sport  of  destiny,  he  should  suddenly  be  set  upon  his 
feet  with  genuine  opportunity  after  the  manner  of  a  short 
story  in  the  Saturday  Evening  Post.  Had  life  then  any 
genuine  sequence  or  dignity?  But  there  it  was.  The  gro 
tesque  side  of  life  was  always  poking  its  waggish  face  around 
the  corner  of  his  mind  whenever  he  became  comfortable  in 
one  of  his  dream  selves;  those  dream  selves  we  all  fashion 
of  a  high  solitary  grandeur. 

No.  Jane  would  have  made  her  way.  But  why  hadn't 
he  heard  of  it?  She  was  going  to  write  books.  He  knew 
books.  There  were  no  books  of  hers  on  the  market.  But 
then  she  had  also  begun  to  be  interested  in  social  conditions. 
Perhaps  she  had  "gone  in"  for  that.  He  had  inquired.  She 


THE  PERSISTENCE  OF  JANE  29 

had  left  the  "Sphere", — oh,  it  must  have  been  that  next  year. 
Nobody  knew  down  there  where  she  was  now.  New  city 
editors,  new  managing  editors  had  come  and  gone.  Blakely 
and  Fitch,  those  two  old  timers,  remembered,  remembered 
her  and  him.  Remembered  their  engagement.  He  remem 
bered  that  one  Spring.  Benches  in  Washington  Square. 
Hansoms.  Good  God,  there  were  hansoms  then,  not  taxis ! 
Eighteen  years  ago.  "The  Black  Cat".  Finzetti's.  Well. 
"The  Cat"  was  still  in  evidence.  Finzetti  had  gone  back  to 
Italy  before  the  War,  he  heard. 

And  Lord,  how  different  prices  were  then,  not  to  mention 
wages.  How  could  a  girl  like  that  live  on  twelve  dollars  a 
week.  But  she  did.  And  really  they  both  had  lived  rather 
royally,  in  spite  of  the  boarding  house.  The  basement  din 
ing-room  where  that  strange  Mr.  Quigley  who  worked  in  a 
bank  had  put  a  bunch  of  violets  at  her  place  the  day  after 
they  had  announced  their  engagement.  The  fuss  of  pleasure 
old  Mrs.  Staples  had  made,  the  woman  who  looked  exactly 
like  a  head  of  lettuce,  with  her  green  flounces.  How  they 
had  laughed  at  that!  What  a  string  of  intimately  amused 
little  jokes  they  had  had  over  the  others.  That  person — 
what  was  his  name? — that  man  who  had  been  a  policeman. 
The  one  they  called  between  themselves  The  Habitual 
Henchman.  What  in  the  devil  was  his  name? 

Well,  who  could  possibly  have  imagined  he  wouldn't  have 
found  anyone  else  after  all,  anyone  to  supplant  those  mem 
ories.  In  a  certain  light  it  was  rather  ridiculous.  But  then 
.  .  .  Miss  Sibley  now  was  certainly  charming  .  .  .  But  .  .  . 

Jane  often  came  in  and  sat  on  a  chair  in  his  living-room. 
She  had  done  that  in  Paris  and  in  London  too,  in  Rio  and 
at  Cairo.  She  still  had  on  the  brown  street  dress  in  which 
he  had  last  seen  her,  and  the  hat  so  out  of  fashion  nowadays. 
She  tortured  a  minute  cambric  handkerchief  in  small  square 
hands  and  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  She  had  brown  hair 
and  brown  eyes,  like  pools  in  a  forest.  He  had  once  told 
her  that.  She  looked  at  him  under  level  brows.  Her  chin 
trembled  but  her  lower  lip  was  bitten  white.  She  sat  and 


30  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

looked  at  him,  without  anger.  Looked  through  him.  He 
had  been  a  cad. 

Of  course  you  could  always  see  the  door- jamb  or  the 
wall-corner,  or  whatever  was  hung  upon  or  stood  against  the 
wall,  through  the  diaphaneity  of  Jane.  She  usually  came 
after  midnight.  Once  she  came  in  the  afternoon  on  a  street 
in  Pernambuco.  That  was  a  comparatively  short  time  after 
the  break.  She  looked  up  at  him  and  took  his  arm.  That 
was  the  hardest  to  bear.  Walking  in  the  sunlight,  along 
the  white  street,  with  the  white  houses  glaring.  With  Jane 
on  his  arm — a  Jane  no  one  else  could  see.  She  suddenly  left 
him,  crossing  a  square  .  .  . 

No,  all  this  money  meant  for  him  must  be  the  opportunity 
to  do  some  really  creative  writing,  the  chance  he  had  cov 
eted  through  years  of  time-serving.  Could  he  ever  do  an 
other  novel?  Should  he  begin  with — what?  Some  more 
articles,  till  he  got  his  hand  in  ? 

Another  thing  that  perplexed  him  was  his  having  gone 
over  to  call  on  Flora  Sibley  that  afternoon  and  his  finding  out 
from  the  elevator-man  at  the  desk  that  she  had  sublet  her 
apartment  and  vanished.  He  had  talked  to  the  sub-leasers. 
They  did  not  know  her  plans  or  where  she  had  gone.  A 
Mr.  Bruston  was  handling  the  matter  for  her.  Coryat  had 
not  seen  her  for  a  week.  He  had  called  up  three  days  before 
and  had  heard  her  voice.  She  had  given  him  no  intimation  of 
her  intention.  Oh,  well,  after  all,  why  should  she?  Yet 
her  going  seemed  to  leave  a  certain  vacancy.  He  must  read 
that  book  of  hers  he  had  bought  to-day  at  Brentano's.  Her 
books  couldn't  be  as  bad  as  she  had  intimated. 

He  settled  himself  under  the  standing  lamp  in  a  comfort 
able  corner.  He  was  in  his  brown  dressing-gown.  He  began 
to  read  "Rosemary  and  Rue".  The  small  cased  clock  ticked 
upon  the  mantle  across  the  room.  The  light  from  the  lamp 
lay  in  a  golden  pool  -about  him.  Outside  the  nearby  window 
vines  dripped  and  the  rain  whispered  softly. 

The  expression  upon  Richard  Coryat's  face  grew  more 
and  more  pained.  Twice  he  snorted,  twice  he  sniffed,  thrice 


THE  PERSISTENCE  OF  JANE  31 

he  stared  up  with  harassed  disbelief  in  his  eyes.  Finally 
the  book  dropped  from  his  hands.  It  was  too  unbelievable ! 

She  couldn't  have  written  it.  A  woman  like  that  couldn't. 
He  closed  the  book  and  took  it  up  in  its  picture  jacket.  The 
cover  design  was  that  of  a  stalwart  young  man  in  khaki  and 
high-laced  boots  embracing  a  frail,  blonde  young  woman 
clad  in  some  material  that  looked  like  window-curtain.  The 
young  woman  clung  to  him  upon  a  rocky  hilltop.  The  young 
man's  face  was  uplifted.  The  illustrator  had  evidently  in 
tended  to  endue  him  with  exaltation.  He  had  succeeded  in 
making  him  look  as  if  he  were  sniffing  a  smelter.  Some 
thing  was  evidently  burning.  This  impression  was  increased 
by  a  conflagrate  sunset  behind  the  two  figures. 

Unfortunately  the  contents  of  the  book  was  of  a  piece 
with  the  cover. 

She  couldn't  have  written  it. 

She  had.  There  was  her  name.  Under  it,  God  save  the 
mark,  "Thirtieth  Thousand". 

He  opened  the  book  and  began  to  go  through  it  again, 
hastily,  but  with  a  careful  scanning  of  pages.  One  halted 
him.  He  settled  himself  to  read.  He  read  it  and  the  two 
following.  The  tension  in  his  face  relaxed.  Then  it  came 
again.  He  skipped  several  chapters.  Again  a  page  halted 
him.  Again  he  read. 

A  half  hour  passed.  At  the  end  of  it,  Coryat  laid  the 
book  down  again  with  a  sigh.  Flashes — decided  flashes — 
amid  a  welter  of  absolutely  inexcusable  sentimentality.  She 
could  write  like  that  on  the  pages  whose  corners  he  had  dog 
eared,  and  yet,  she  could  write — all  the  rest! 

He  stared  at  nothing,  and  Jane  grew  out  of  the  chair  op 
posite.  She  sat  demurely,  hands  quiet  in  her  lap.  They 
were  working  at  the  diminutive  handkerchief.  Her  eyes 
were  on  him  now.  They  were  full  of  tears. 

"Oh,  Jane,  Jane,  Jane!" 

He  had  not  spoken  the  words,  but  it  was  exactly  as  if  he 
had  spoken  them.  The  room  was  full  of  words.  Full  of 
her  own  low  last  word  to  him.  "Good-bye!" 


32  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

He  wondered  what  she  was  doing. 

She  had  built  a  new  life  by  now.  She  did  not  need  or 
want  him.  She  had  fought  through  to  some  new  happiness. 
He  was  still  a  selfish  fool.  An  incredibly  selfish  fool. 

He  wanted  somebody.    He  was  intolerably  lonely. 

He  was  a  beastly  idiot,  a  perfect  infant.  Strong,  per 
haps,  when  the  outlook  was  absolutely  blank.  Weak  in  the 
hour  of  opportunity.  This  money.  His  writing. 

He  wanted  Jane. 

His  loneliness  illuminated  his  mind  with  a  dry,  harsh  light 
that  showed  it  intolerably  empty.  Across  the  cracked  and 
broken  tesserae  of  the  floor  of  a  ruined  palace  sparse  thought 
rustled  like  dry  leaves.  He  had  actually  seen  such  a  ruin 
once.  Near  Ombos. 

He  sat  up  and  looked  around  him.  He  felt  weak  in  bone 
and  sinew.  Outside  his  window  the  rain  rustled.  It  had 
probably  suggested  the  rustling  of  those  leaves. 

Jane.  Flora.  Why  had  she  left  without  a  single  word  for 
him?  But  why  should  she? 

He  would  sleep  like  the  dead  to-night.  He  hoped  he 
would  never  wake  up.  After  all,  who  was  dependent  upon 
him? 

"Oh,  what  did  I  do  to  you,  Jane?" 

He  was  in  a  nice  state  of  mind  indeed  He  was  a  pre 
posterous  ass.  He  had  better  go  to  bed. 

He  would  start  the  first  of  those  articles  to-morrow.  To 
morrow  he  was  to  lunch  with  Lin  Jessup  at  the  Players.  And 
with  an  old  acquaintance  who  had  arranged  the  meeting  at 
Coryat's  intimation.  "The  Coming  Age",  after  all,  might 
want  what  he  wanted  to  write  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  IV:  MR.  GARTNER  GETS  A  LETTER 

ON  a  certain  afternoon  in  May,  Jake  Gartner,  post 
master  of  Tupton,  Pennsylvania,  came  out  of  the  yel 
low-painted  brick  building  at  the  corner  of  Market  and 
Willow  Streets  and  stood  looking  across  at  the  platform  of 
the  Railroad  Station,  where  a  seedy  individual  in  a  grey 
sweater  occupied  himself  with  a  painted  tin  chocolate  and 
gum  machine  that  stood  against  the  station  building.  He 
had  removed  the  front  of  the  machine  and  was  scooping 
chinking  handfuls  of  change  into  the  pocket  of  his  sweater. 
He  returned  the  front  to  its  place,  locked  it  with  a  click  and 
jingle  of  keys,  and  picked  up  the  long  container  he  had  re 
moved  for  replenishment.  He  came  across  the  street  toward 
Mr.  Gartner. 

"Been  a  hot  day  a'ready,  ain't  it  Abe?'*  The  gentleman 
addressed  as  Abe  jerked  his  head  in  reply  and  spat  accu 
rately  over  his  shoulder  into  the  gutter.  His  agency  for  the 
station  candy  machines  gave  him,  over  and  above  his  com 
bination  news  room  and  billiard  parlor,  an  importance  in 
his  own  eyes. 

"Yeah.    Any  nooze?" 

"Not  much.  Jase'll  have  a  chance  to  get  their  place  rented 
for  the  Battells  now  though." 

"Who?    Jase  Duffit?    Why?" 

"Letter  from  a  New  York  lady.  Thinks  she  wants  to 
live  here.  Askin'  about  proputty." 

"Thasso  ?  That's  a  queer  one.  Thinka  wantin'  here  when 
yeh  could  live  in  N'York." 

"What  I  thought.  We-el,  I  guess  I'll  be  gettin'  home  to 
supper.  Goin'  home  yerself  ?" 

"Yeah.  It's  after  seven  aint  it.  That  six  o'clock  train 

33 


84  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

makes  me  a  busy  time  'thout  help.  S'pose  you'll  be  back  here 
again  workin'  till  all  hours." 

"Not  to-night.  Got  another  touch  o'  my  asthmy.  Kil- 
kevin'll  do  the  extra  sortin'.  We-el,  I'll  be  movin',  I  guess. 
S'long  Abe." 

"S'long  Jake.    See  ye  to-morrow." 

Mr.  Gartner  passed  rather  importantly  down  Willow 
Street,  looking  across  at  the  Livery  Stable.  He  waved  with 
a  loose  gesture  to  Jackson  Weil  who  sat  just  outside  the 
door  of  the  latter  smoking  a  pipe  and  caressing  a  black- 
spotted  carriage  dog.  He  turned  into  Monument  and  crossed 
the  street  toward  a  decent  white  house  with  a  small  iron- 
fenced  front  yard. 

Mr.  Gartner  found  supper  already  upon  the  table  and 
his  wife,  coming  in  from  the  kitchen,  with  flushed  face  and 
disordered  hair,  her  hands  disposing  the  latter's  moist  tend 
rils,  sat  down  to  help  him  to  a  veal  chop  and  smoking 
baked  beans.  She  began  to  discuss  the  salient  features  of 
the  day's  routine. 

"Got  a  letter  I  got  to  take  up  to  Jase  Duffit,"  remarked 
Mr.  Gartner,  finally,  after  rolling  his  secret  for  a  while 
luxuriously  upon  his  mental  palate.  He  produced  it  with 
that  casualness  that  always  lends  such  flavor  to  a  matter 
of  import. 

"What's  that?"  returned  his  wife,  halting  mid-way  in 
mastication.  She  looked  at  him  with  frank  suspicion,  the 
way  of  most  indurated  wives. 

"Lady  in  New  York  wants  to  rent  a  furnished  house 
here.  References  look  good.  Seems  sort  of  high-toned. 
You  know  the  Battells  have  been  after  Jase  to  rent  their 
place  if  he  could  fer  summer  an'  fall." 

"Huh.  My  land,  what's  she  want  t'  come  here  fer? 
How  many  of  her  is  there?" 

To  this  odd  mathematical  question  Mr.  Gartner  returned 
simply : 

"Self  and  maid." 


MR.  GARTNER  GETS  A  LETTER  35 

"Maid,"  sniffed  Mrs.  Gartner.  "Maid,  indeed."  Which 
latter  ejaculation  seemed  strikingly  inferential. 

"Well,"  she  added,  rising  to  clear  away  the  plates  and 
bring  back  saucers  for  the  apple-sauce,  "Some  has  them, 
I  s'pose.  New  York  must  be  a  queer  place.  So  full  o' 
these  transients.  But  what's  my  lady  think  she's  goin'  to 
do  in  Tupton,  I  wonder?" 

"Do?"  Mr.  Gartner's  tone  expressed  a  mild  surprise. 
"Do?  Nothing.  Why  should  she?  Live  here." 

Mrs.  Gartner  vouchsafed  a  somewhat  acrid  smile  in  the 
general  direction  of  the  knitted  dining-room  motto. 

"She'll  find  it  dead.  Dead  enough."  She  said  between 
mouthfuls  of  apple-sauce.  "Guess  she  thinks  she's  comin' 
here  fer  peace  and  quiet.  Plenty  o'  that.  An'  niggers. 
Let's  see  the  letter,"  she  added  suddenly,  a  new  acquisitive 
note  in  her  voice. 

Her  husband  drew  an  envelope  from  his  inner  breast 
pocket.  "Careful  of  it,"  he  warned.  "Gotta  show  it  to 
Jase." 

Mrs.  Gartner's  only  reply  to  this  was  a  rather  embittered 
stare  which  she  meant  to  make  dignified.  She  held  the  blue 
notepaper  somewhat  away  from  her  and  read  it  with  her 
head  turned  slightly  sideways  and  tilted.  Her  lips  were 
primly  drawn  together. 

"I  don't  know  as  we  want  her  in  Tupton,"  she  remarked 
as  she  finished  deciphering.  "It  smells,"  she  added,  sniffing. 
"Vi'lets." 

"Well,  what  if  it  does?  Jase  wants  to  rent  that  house, 
don't  he?  And  you  can  see  by  the  way  she  writes  she's  a 
lady.  (Mrs.  Gartner  interrupted  at  this  point  with  another 
sardonic  sniff.)  See  what  she  says  about  a  quiet  spot " 

"Why  don't  she  go  to  the  mountains?  Don't  she  know 
it's  hot  as  the  hinges  down  here  along  in  July?" 

"Guess  she  don't.  But  what  have  you  got  against  her, 
Ag?  You  don't  even  know  her.  Here,  gimme  that  letter 
back !" 

Mrs.  Gartner  returned  it  with  a  somewhat  contemptuous 


36  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

flirt.  "Adela  Ventress,"  was  all  she  would  add,  "Ain't  it 
a  name !"  Mr.  Gartner  ignored  this  cryptic  addition. 

"Guess  I'll  go  over  to  Jase's  right  now/'  he  said,  a  trifle 
importantly,  after  a  second  or  two.  His  wife  made  no  reply 
but  rose  to  clear  away  the  dishes. 

When  Mr.  Gartner  returned  an  hour  later  he  heard  the 
creak  of  his  wife's  rocking  on  the  porch  as  he  stooped  to 
unlatch  the  gate.  A  midge-infested  arc-lamp  on  Willow 
near  the  Livery  Stable  threw  jigging  shadows  from  the 
young  leafage  of  the  trees.  The  lisp  of  his  step  as  he  came 
up  the  walk  stopped  the  rocking.  His  shoes  thumped  on 
the  steps.  The  other  rocker,  the  one  with  the  leather  seat, 
complained  of  his  weight.  A  slow  creaking,  now  duo- 
toned  began  again. 

"Jase  say?"  questioned  Mrs.  Gartner  after  a  while  in  a 
a  low  voice. 

"Thinks  the  Battell  place  might  suit  her.  He'll  write  her 
to-morra." 

"Warm,  aint  it?"  His  wife's  voice  was  almost  wistful. 
His  own  rocking  stopped.  Then,  "Yeah,"  he  said.  "It's 
a  warm  evening."  He  began  rocking  again. 

The  minute,  melodic  sawing  sound  of  an  insect  in  the 
grass  proceeded  intermittently.  Down  Monument  Street 
the  Courthouse  clock  struck  its  faint  half -hour  chime. 
Voices  came  indistinguishably  from  Elm  Street. 


CHAPTER  V:  TUPTON  AND  THE  TEN 

ONCE  round  the  curve  behind  Meldon  Ridge,  with  the 
Knob  lifting  into  prominence  above  low  rolling  hills  on 
your  right,  before  the  iron  forefoot  of  the  swaying  train 
the  land  dipped  into  sunlight  from  the  shadows  between 
high  slopes.  At  the  risk  of  a  weeping  eye,  if  you  craned 
from  a  clicked-up  window  on  the  right  side  of  the  train, 
the  silver  cincture  of  the  Passamint  River  glittered  full  into 
view,  and  beyond  it  the  red  and  white  toy-box  town  set  in 
its  nest  of  green. 

But  the  first  you  really  saw  of  Tupton  was  the  Jail.  The 
further  shore  of  the  Passamint  lifted  an  abrupt  embank 
ment  crowned  by  old  Court  Street,  and  on  the  other  side  of 
old  Court  Street  rose  that  high,  brown,  barred  bastille. 
Churlishly  it  faced  inward  toward  the  town,  its  back  to  the 
river. 

Nearer,  as  the  train  rumbled  on  the  high  trestled  bridge, 
the  eye  overlooked  Courthouse  Square  down  Monument 
Street.  Then,  with  a  steady  clanging  from  the  engine's  bell, 
the  train  slowed  past  Wilder's  farm  and  the  Poplar  Street 
crossing,  brazenly  tolling  its  way  through  the  heart  of  Tup- 
ton  and  past  a  solid  block  of  old-fashioned  red  brick  resi 
dences,  upright  as  prim  old  ladies  in  lace  and  mitts,  the 
cushioned  stone  stoops  below  their  Corinthian-pilastered 
doorways  set  back  from  a  clean  and  wide  brick  walk. 

But  if  you  watched  Tupton  approach  from  a  window  on 
the  left-hand  side  of  the  train,  no  such  portent  as  the  Jail 
suddenly  stabbed  you  in  the  eye.  Beyond  the  silver  eddies 
of  the  Passamint,  there  bending  south  and  running  west, 
slept  the  green  pastures  and  the  red  and  cream  buildings 
of  The  Three  Farms — Cripps',  beyond  the  weeping  wil- 

37 


88  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

lows  on  the  river-bank,  Sayres',  with  the  flashing  weather 
cock  of  a  running  horse,  Wilder's  furthest  off ;  beyond  them 
all  the  dim  roofs  of  residences  on  Popular  and  Sycamore. 

Northwest  also  rose  the  Hill,  the  yellow  roof  of  the  Insti 
tute  gleaming  over  the  trees  behind  .the  Axter  Road;  east 
of  it  the  Hyde  place  with  its  strange  Gothic  tower,  between 
them  Judge  Lindon's  old  mansion,  white  and  sprawled.  And 
for  backdrop  of  the  scene  the  pale  spires  of  smoke  from 
The  Works  still  further  north  seemed  phantom  fingers 
weaving  a  perspicuous  curtain  of  faint  lemon  and  violet,  that 
floated  and  veiled  the  further  valley. 

Thus  the  first  two  views  of  Tupton.  The  tracks  of  the 
Meldon  Valley  Railroad  cleft  the  town  in  two  like  a  sword. 

The  first  settlers  of  that  part  of  Pennsylvania  were  Scotch- 
Irish  and  German.  The  Scotch-Irish  were  bitterish  Pres 
byterians.  Isaiah  Scott,  Prothonotary  of  Meldon  County, 
had  entertained  greasy  Tuscarora  and  Shawnee  sachems  at 
dinner  in  the  courthouse  in  Tupton's  early  years,  dispensing 
cider  and  wine.  Wolves  from  the  lower  slopes  of  the  Blue 
Ridge  had  howled  around  the  frontier  town.  As  far  back 
as  1760  a  worthy  settler  named  Ephraiam  Axter  had  re 
ceived  by  patent  some  three  hundred  acres  that  became 
known  as  Quarry  Hill.  That  part  of  the  country  was 
found  to  be  fairly  rich  in  areas  of  iron  ores  and  limestone. 
This  Axter  had  later  purchased  three  ore  banks  in  North 
Mountain.  He  then  took  out  a  patent  for  some  sixteen  hun 
dred  acres  including  the  land  between  the  ore  banks.  Such 
was  the  rise  of  the  present  Meldon  Iron  Works  that  con 
stituted  the  largest  industry  near  Tupton.  Far  back  a 
certain  shrewd  Adolphus  Hyde  had  become  sole  owner. 

Yet  in  spite  of  its  iron  works,  Tupton  had  remained 
fairly  obscure,  while  the  town  of  Barrack  Falls  further  north 
and  the  real  shipping  point  for  Hyde's  manufactured  iron 
had  grown  into  a  cheap,  blatant,  noisy  young  metropolis. 
Meanwhile  the  descendants  of  the  original  Scotch-Irish  and 
German  families  of  Tupton,  with  a  strong  infusion  of  Eng- 


TUPTON  AND  THE  TEN  39 

lish  stock,  had  replenished  the  earth  in  conservatism  and 
strong  provincial  pride. 

The  town  was  small,  the  principal  families  traced  back 
to  the  Revolution.  Southeast  of  the  town  was  a  negro  set 
tlement  in  the  region  locally  known  as  the  Bottom.  The 
principal  residence  section  was  now  on  the  Northwest  side 
of  Market  Street,  along  which  ran  the  somewhat  antiquated 
rolling-stock  of  the  Meldon  Railroad.  Here  Poplar,  Syca 
more  and  Ivy  ran  northwest  from  Market  in  parallel  maple 
and  chestnut-shaded  lines.  Market  was  some  ninety  feet 
wide,  Poplar,  Sycamore  and  Ivy  at  least  sixty.  Northeast 
of  The  Old  Residence  Block  on  the  opposite  side  of  Market 
was  the  Railroad  Station.  On  this  side  of  town  Laurel 
Street  ran  straight  north  from  the  stone-parapeted  vehicle 
bridge  over  the  Passamint,  to  turn  northeast  across  Oak, 
Elm,  and  Willow  at  the  intersection  of  Oak  and  Monument. 
The  large  and  ancient  Presbyterian  Church  occupied  a  tree- 
shaded  green  at  this  point.  The  lane  to  the  Bottom  mean 
dered  off  downhill  from  a  point  southeast  of  the  church. 
On  both  sides,  between  the  old  residence  block  and  the  sta 
tion,  Market  Street  was  lined  with  quite  modern  stores. 
There  were  other  stores  along  Monument  and  Laurel.  There 
was  also  a  Memorial  Library,  and  there  was  the  historic 
Tupton  Institute,  which  had  never  had  more  than  one  hun 
dred  pupils.  The  latter  was  a  semi-colonial  structure,  with 
a  yellow  roof  and  a  monstrosity  of  a  cupola.  It  looked 
down  upon  the  chief  residence  district  of  Tupton  from  the 
lower  slope  of  The  Hill. 

Within  the  last  twenty-five  years  a  change  had  gradually 
come  upon  the  town.  Certain  newer  tradespeople  had  pros 
pered.  The  descendants  of  more  ancient  tradespeople  looked 
upon  their  inevitable  advance  in  social  standing  with  per 
plexity  and  suspicion.  Manners  had  changed  also,  strange 
opinions  were  often  heard  in  certain  quarters.  Deference 
to  family  and  professional  standing  was  felt  to  be  going 
by  the  board. 

That,  at  least,  was  the  undercurrent  of  much  of  the  con- 


40  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

versation  in  the  Old  Residence  Block.  The  families  of  the 
Old  Residence  Block  were  intimate  with  each  other  since 
childhood.  They  comprised,  on  Market  Street,  the  Brattles, 
the  Corneliuses,  the  Jeremiah  Mixters,  the  Uttersons,  the 
Adolphus  Frazees.  In  their  high-stooped  brick  residences 
they  formed  the  thin  red  line  of  Tupton's  defence,  the  front 
line.  Separated  from  them  only  by  adjoining  rear  lawns, 
trim  garden  paths,  berry  bushes  and,  in  several  instances, 
a  tall  shady  chestnut  encircled  near  its  base  by  a  green 
wooden  seat,  the  six  corresponding  residences  on  Monu 
ment  Street  might  have  been  called  the  second  line.  Flank 
ing  these  were  the  three  houses  facing  Oak  and  the  three 
facing  Larch,  namely  the  Burleys,  the  Syles,  the  Reynolds; 
the  MacConliss's,  the  Vrooms,  the  Webbers.  Against  the 
invasion  of  questionable  taste,  odd  manners,  unconvention- 
ality,  any  new  ideas,  the  old  Residence  Block  presented  a 
compactness  of  resistance  comparable,  in  a  military  sense, 
only  to  that  of  the  old-time  British  Square. 

In  the  Old  Residence  Block  life  was  primarily  a  matter 
of  ritual.  It  still  proceeded  with  a  leisurely  decorum.  It 
acknowledged  without  unseemly  question  the  pre-eminence  of 
its  fathers'  gods.  Whether  this  was  manifested  in  the  per 
petual  asseveration  of  Mr.  Utterson,  the  retired  lawyer,  that 
"You  will  never  change  human  nature,  sir !"  or  in  the  ex 
asperation  of  Jeremiah  Mixter  with  the  successes  of  woman 
suffrage;  with  Adolphus  Frazee,  the  Railroad  Official's 
staunch  Republicanism  and  implacable  hatred  of  Woodrow 
Wilson,  with  old  General  Brattle's  passionate  militarism  or 
Dr.  John  Cornelius's  impending  apoplexy  at  any  mention  of 
a  world-state,  the  governing  principles  remained  the  same. 

True,  the  Monument  Street  phalanx  was  perhaps  weak 
ened  by  the  presence  of  the  young  Harry  Persons  and  the 
temperamental  Rebecca  Stone,  'but,  after  all,  these  younger 
folk  were  saplings  of  the  same  soil,  seeded  from  equally 
venerable  family  trees.  And  they  were  insulated  respec 
tively,  to  mix  a  metaphor,  by  the  Miss  Babbitts  and  the 
Cravens,  by  Alexander  Pennyfeather  and  Miss  Sophia 


TUPTON  AND  THE  TEN  41 

Crome.  Besides,  Harry  Persons  was  a  trusted  protege  of 
Cephas  Hyde,  present  lord  of  the  Hill;  the  temperamental 
Rebecca  Stone's  great-grandfather  had  raised  the  Meldon 
Fencibles  and  his  Revolutionary  sword  still  hung  in  the  hall. 
"These  young  people  under  our  wing,"  as  old  General  Brat 
tle  had  been  heard  to  refer  to  them  with  leonine  rumbling, 
"are,  after  all, — ahem! — sound  to  the  core."  They  were 
therefore  generously  permitted  a  somewhat  lighter  attitude 
toward  life,  they  were  indulged  in  a  few  harmless  heresies. 

It  did  not  even  matter  that  Rebecca  Stone  was  known 
to  peruse  both  Schopenhauer  and  Nietzche,  and  sometimes 
quoted  openly  and  without  shame  from  Bernard  Shaw. 
True,  at  the  very  beginning  of  the  war  she  had  announced 
herself  a  pacifist,  thereby  giving  General  Brattle  one  of  the 
shocks  of  his  life,  but  she  had  shown  her  mettle  eventually, 
having  probably  made  more  Red  Cross  bandages  than  any 
other  woman  in  Tupton.  True  it  irritated  Adolphus  Frazee 
that  she  seemed,  in  spite  of  everything,  still  to  admire  Wil 
son;  it  rubbed  Dr.  John  Cornelius  decidedly  the  wrong 
way  that  she  would  not  admit  the  League  of  Nations  to 
be  the  abhorrent  sham  he  considered  it.  Nevertheless,  she 
remained  a  Stone. 

So  the  Ten  of  Tupton,  despite  immaterial  inner  dif 
ferences,  stood  foursquare  to  every  changing  wind  of  doc 
trine.  Within  their  portiered  drawing-rooms  and  behind 
their  bowed  green  and  white  wooden  shutters  they  con 
served  the  aristocratic  social  principle.  By  their  edict  alone 
all  real  amenities  in  intercourse  with  the  other  less  fortu 
nate  inhabitants  of  the  town  were  fostered  and  perpetu 
ated.  The  smoke  of  their  chimneys  spiring  bluely  upward 
through  the  hushed  evening  must  have  been  a  delicious  in 
cense  in  the  nostrils  of  the  Most  High. 

They  bowed  the  knee  in  two  temples  only,  both  gleaming 
sepulchrally  white  from  the  triangular  Green  faced  by  the 
houses  on  Monument  Street.  There  the  First  Presbyterian 
and  the  Protestant  Episcopal  churches  stood  side  by  side. 
Between  these  two  denominations  there  had  existed  feuds 


42  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

of  old.  To-day,  however,  in  face  of  the  invasion  of  "these 
tradespeople",  all  differences  had  been  buried.  The  old 
residents  were  the  principal  pew-holders  in  both  edifices, 
the  largest  donators  in  both  to  the  salary  of  minister  and 
rector  and  to  the  weekly  collections,  the  staunch  backbone  of 
customary  observance.  Hardly  one  Sunday  of  the  year 
saw  any  one  of  them  missing  from  their  ancient  seats.  To 
the  devout  in  Tupton,  and  there  were  many,  this  was  a  con 
tinual  source  of  edification  and  self-congratulation.  With 
such  a  solid  phalanx  of  respectability  their  rooted  centre, 
they  need  certainly  never  fear  for  the  moral  tone  of  their 
town. 

But  there  were  also,  alas,  the  outliers.  Take  Arthur  Pol 
lock,  for  instance.  While  he  held,  unquestionably,  the  re 
gard  of  the  first  families  and  also  came  of  old  stock,  he 
resided  on  Sycamore  Street.  His  Emporium  was  certainly 
nothing  against  him.  His  fathers  had  founded  it.  As  a 
general  store  it  was  rooted  in  the  memory  of  all  the  old 
inhabitants.  Pollock  was  also  a  Republican  in  sympathy, 
though  not  what  could  ever  satisfy  the  high  principles  of 
Adolphus  Frazee  as  a  wholly  loyal  party  man.  He  was  too 
subject  to  eccentric  outbursts  of  irascibility  against  what  he 
denounced  as  "peculation"  and  "outrageous  imbecility  in 
office".  This  was  applied  principally,  it  must  be  admitted, 
to  officials  in  the  State  capitol. 

But  then  Pollock  was  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  of  those  who 
sought  to  conserve  that  high  tradition  of  manners  dating 
from  the  period  of  the  Civil  War.  Pollock  was  sometimes 
too  outspoken,  too  brusque,  too  careless  of  the  conventions. 
Certain  of  his  stories  in  mixed  gatherings  had  been  thought 
in  questionable  taste.  He  lacked  respect  for  a  number  of 
criteria  of  conduct  essentially  sacred  to  the  Ten.  He  had 
upon  occasion  proved  too  rude  and  boisterous.  This  at 
least  was  the  opinion  of  the  women  who  upheld  the  social 
standards  of  the  inner  citadel,  and  their  men,  with  a  se 
cret  somewhat  lugubrious  regard  for  Pollock,  outwardly  at 
least  concurred.  At  stag  gatherings  they  greeted  him  more 


TUPTON  AND  THE  TEN  43 

genially,  but  theirs  after  all  was  not  the  ball  and  sceptre 
of  social  office. 

And  if  Arthur  Pollock  was  an  outlier,  how  much  more  so 
his  brother-in-law,  Dr.  Charles  Gedney.  He  was  the  recluse 
of  the  town.  He  had  married  one  of  the  Cripps  girls,  as 
Martha,  his  late  wife,  was  still  referred  to  by  some,  an 
odd,  saturnine  woman  who  had  experienced,  it  seemed, 
more  than  her  share  of  family  tragedy.  She  had  not  sought 
to  mingle  with  the  elect  of  the  town,  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
after  a  few  vague  first  advances,  had  not  been  sought  after. 
Before  the  death  of  Arthur  Pollock's  wife  these  two  families 
had  kept  a  good  deal  to  themselves.  Twenty  years  ago  the 
Gedney's  eldest  daughter,  Gertrude,  had  disappeared  from 
home  and  had  never  been  heard  from  since.  It  had  been  the 
nine-days'  wonder  of  the  time. 

To-day  the  relicts  of  both  the  House  of  Pollock  and  the 
House  of  Gedney  were  still  asked  to  the  various  Tupton 
entertainments.  They  were  not  unkindly  discussed  by  the 
arbiters  of  taste.  The  men  were  greeted  by  their  first  names 
by  the  men  of  the  Ten.  Dr.  Gedney  had,  after  all,  been  for 
many  years  one  of  the  bulwarks  of  the  Institute  whither  the 
few  scions  of  the  Ten  had  repaired  for  their  earlier  educa 
tion  before  departing  for  boarding-school  or  college.  But 
he  and  his  wife  had  seemed  to  hide  themselves  away.  After 
his  daughter's  disappearance  and  his  wife's  later  death  his 
younger  growing  adopted  daughter  came  only  gradually 
within  cognizance  of  the  first  families. 

Then  Bessie  Cripps  Gedney,  orphaned  child  of  Martha's 
brother,  had  formed  school  friendships  with  young  Betty 
Cornelius  and  young  Laura  Brattle.  Mrs.  Brattle  and  Mrs. 
Cornelius  found  her  a  well-behaved  young  person.  They 
politely  permitted  the  friendship.  It  remained  in  both  cases, 
however,  tinged  with  formality. 

Aside  from  the  outliers — and  others  who  should  be  men 
tioned  were  the  James  Battells  (whose  home  a  Mrs.  Ven- 
tress  from  New  York  had  just  rented  for  the  summer),  not 
to  say  Mrs.  Ralph  Harris  the  stoic  of  Sycamore  Street,  now 


44.  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

last  remaining  evidence  of  her  scattered  family,  her  boys 
being  prominent  elsewhere  in  politics  and  industry — most 
of  the  underlings  and  tradespeople  lived  on  the  wrong  side 
of  town  (in  the  Ten's  opinion,  at  least,)  infesting  Ivy,  Syca 
more,  and  Poplar  Streets,  where  both  Arthur  Pollock  and 
Doctor  Gedney  happened  to  be  so  unfortunately  situated. 
Moreover,  the  new  mercantile  class  whose  invasion  the  Old 
Residence  Block  so  patricianly  resisted,  had,  in  many  in 
stances,  blossomed  forth  with  pleasant  brand-new  houses  set 
in  their  own  comfortable  gardens.  They  had  brought  the 
raucous  Victrola  and  the  ubiquitous  Ford  to  Tupton.  Their 
young  people  formed  their  own  chattering  society.  Some 
of  them  chewed  gum,  most  of  them  indulged  in  slang,  many 
of  them  forced  their  way  into  the  hallowed  Institute  to  re 
ceive  their  education. 

They  permeated  the  town  like  a  not  yet  virulent  pestilence. 
They  quickened  its  life  with  the  cheap  and  noisy.  Their 
fathers  made  money  and  instituted  new  places  of  amuse 
ment,  like  turning  the  old  Fair  Grounds  into  a  Midway  Park, 
like  starting  the  Star  Theatre,  a  moving-picture  "palace"  on 
Willow  Street,  like  proclaiming  a  new  young  people's  tennis 
club  beyond  Ivy  Street.  Was  not  the  dignified  if  dilapidated 
tan-bark  court  under  the  weeping  willow  trees  in  a  corner 
of  the  Institute  Grounds  enough  in  all  conscience?  These 
young  people  in  the  summer  buzzed  about  Tupton  in  white 
flannel  trousers,  and  striped  sport  skirts,  in  sport  shirts, 
sneakers,  and  georgette  blouses,  to  the  scandalisation  by  fits 
of  giggles  and  gawkish  horseplay  of  the  sedate  older  resi 
dents.  They  went  often  on  unchaperoned  picnics  into  the 
country,  and  they  danced  eternally  on  their  porches  to  the 
most  rackety  music.  They  destroyed  the  evening  hush  of 
the  streets  and  their  observance  of  the  Sabbath  was  a  dis 
grace — or  rather,  their  lack  of  observance.  So  much,  then, 
for  the  patricians  and  the  hoi  polloi. 


CHAPTER  VI:    UNCLE  ARTHUR  THINKS  NOTH 
ING  OF  IT 

I  THINK  nothing  of  it!"  said  Uncle  Arthur  Pollock 
stoutly,  rising  slightly  on  his  toes  as  he  stood  braced 
before  the  empty  fireplace.  He  thrust  out  his  lower  lip  in 
a  way  that  made  his  chin  recede.  His  sack  suit  (in  much 
need  of  pressing)  was  dark  blue  with  the  faintest  thread  of 
red  in  it.  It  had  been  made  to  order.  Uncle  Arthur's  clothes 
had  to  be  made  to  order.  Across  one  of  the  gray  corduroy 
waistcoats  he  affected  ran  a  heavy  red-gold  watch-chain. 

He  was  huge.  He  had  a  scar  that  ran  across  his  left 
cheek  from  under  the  eye  over  to  opposite  the  lobe  of  the 
ear.  He  had  large  stick-out  oyster-shaped  ears  that  were 
always  fiery-red  and  gave  an  aggressive,  attentive  aspect  to 
his  face.  He  had  a  wide  mouth  drooping  at  the  corners. 
His  countenance  was  ruddy  and  round.  His  sandy  hair  was 
thinned  and  fragile,  yet  stood  up  with  remarkable  wiriness 
across  the  arc  of  his  pate,  from  ear  to  ear.  His  mustache 
was  sandy,  brief  and  irregular  as  if  bitten.  One  eyebrow 
was  perpetually  higher  than  the  other  and  the  eye  under  it 
slightly  bloodshot  and  strained.  For  Uncle  Arthur  was 
astigmatic  and  would  not  admit  it.  He  also  would  not  wear 
glasses.  He  thought  nothing  of  them.  That  was  his  fa 
vourite  expression. 

You  may  be  surprised  and  a  bit  perturbed  by  Uncle 
Arthur.  All  I  can  say  is  that  he  did  really  have  that  effect 
upon  people.  He  wore  his  clothes  baggilly,  yet  they  were 
never  old  clothes.  He  had  partially  retired  from  business, 
but  still  kept  a  watchful  eye  on  his  famous  store,  a  drygoods 
store,  the  oldest  and  largest  in  Tupton.  He  had  not  got  his 
scar  shooting  wildebeeste  or  struggling  with  catamounts 

45 


46  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

on  the  brinks  of  terrific  precipices.  He  had  got  it  by  falling 
downstairs  at  the  age  of  thirty-seven  and  hitting  his  face 
on  a  brass  stair-tread.  It  had  cut  his  face  open  and  he  had 
been  in  bed  for  two  months.  Partly  shock  and  partly  be 
cause  Uncle  Arthur  was  a  person  who  liked  to  be  petted 
while  he  damned  it.  Nowadays  he  spent  most  of  his  time 
thinking  nothing  of  it  and  watching  the  hennery  life  of  some 
gamecocks  he  kept  in  a  wired  enclosure  in  his  back-yard  on 
Poplar  Street,  though  he  paid  a  visit  to  the  store  every  day 
also.  His  house  on  Poplar  Street  was  an  enormous  affair, 
the  oldest  house  in  Tupton.  It  was  full  of  glass  cases  of 
stuffed  things,  birds,  small  animals,  even  reptiles — stuffed. 
Cases  of  butterflies.  That  is,  those  were  in  the  library  and 
drawing-room  on  the  lower  floor. 

Dr.  Gedney,  who  sat  regarding  his  brother-in-law,  was 
a  man  of  about  fifty-five,  Uncle  Arthur's  age.  He  was  as 
neat  as  wax.  Black  clothes,  a  black  bow  tie,  very  white  linen, 
a  prominent  nose  long  and  earnest,  and  small,  black  eyes 
that  bored  like  gimlets.  Pronounced  chin  and  a  high  white 
forehead.  Black  hair — a  black  mustache. 

There  was  a  pervasive  eccentricity  about  Uncle  Arthur 
and  a  sort  of  sunset  glow.  His  spasmodic  irascibilty  and 
overwhelming  scorn  of  most  ideas  hardly  mitigated  this 
effect.  They  only  made  the  sunset  somewhat  stormy.  But 
the  black  and  white  of  Dr.  Gedney — for  his  countenance  was 
of  a  fine  clear  pallor  accentuated  by  jetty  mustache  and 
hair — conferred  more  true  restfulness,  if  more  astringency. 
Where  Uncle  Arthur's  presence  was  pervasive  but  ambigu 
ous,  Dr.  Gedney 's  had  the  compactness  and  accentuation  of 
an  exclamation  point  and  the  frosty  stillness  of  a  winter's 
night.  His  lips  were  thinly  chiselled — his  teeth  white 
and  regular — where  Uncle  Arthur's  were  extraordinarily 
crooked  and  coloured  like  old  ivory.  Till  he  spoke  you 
would  have  taken  Dr.  Gedney  for  a  man  of  infinite  deter 
mination.  When  he  did  speak,  however,  his  voice  had  the 
still-born  quality  of  the  utterance  of  a  very  shy  man  who 
talks  little  and  only  to  his  intimates.  It  rustled  dry  and  un- 


UNCLE  ARTHUR  THINKS  NOTHING  OF  IT     47 

certainly.  His  eyes  changed  when  he  spoke.  They  dimmed. 
They  dreamed.  When  roused,  however,  he  became  aston 
ishingly  staccato. 

"Now,  Arthur,"  said  Dr.  Gedney.  "Don't  adopt  that  in 
sufferable  attitude.  There  isn't  the  slightest  reason  to  sup- 
pose 

Uncle  Arthur  unexpectedly  flirted  a  large  blue  and  white 
handkerchief  from  some  bulge  of  his  person  and  snorted 
into  it.  His  slightly  bulbous  nose  became  even  redder. 

" nothing  of  it!"  said  Uncle  Arthur  from  behind  his 

handkerchief.  "Positively  nothing!" 

Bessie  had  been  watching  all  this  from  the  ottoman  in 
front  of  a  book-case  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  the 
book-case  that  had  the  big  luggable  books  in  it.  She  was 
also  looking  at  the  illustrations  of  Le  Sage's  "Gil  Bias".  She 
would  look  and  then  watch.  She  wondered  what  Uncle 
Arthur  was  "nothing"ing  about  this  time.  Her  mind  was 
not  on  her  elders.  A  thin  sunbrowned  child  of  sixteen, 
black  hair  still  tied  behind  with  a  dark  blue  ribbon.  A  cross- 
barred  blue  gingham  dress.  Black  stockings  and  sandals. 
Large  dark  eyes  with  long  lashes,  elfishly  bright.  A  slightly 
uptilted  nose,  a  short  upper  lip  and  a  mouth  the  colour  and 
texture  of  a  roseleaf.  Very  much  the  amusing  child  still, 
in  many  ways,  but  with  a  mind  of  her  own. 

All  that  there  were  of  the  Gedneys  now — the  Doctor  and 
Bessie — and  Bessie  was  really  a  Cripps.  Then  there  was 
Annie,  in  the  kitchen,  cook,  housemaid  and  nurse  of  old. 

"There  isn't  the  slightest  reason  to  suppose,"  went  on  Dr. 
Gedney,  in  his  rustly  voice,  "that  this  Mrs.  Ventress  could 
possibly  be  a  bad  influence  upon  anybody.  The  drawings 
Bessie  has  shown  me  are  excellent,  I  think,  and  she  is  most 
interested.  I  think  my  plan  an  admirable  one." 

Bessie  was  not  listening. 

"At  your  age !"  puffed  Uncle  Arthur,  for  answer.  "Don't 
fool  yourself,  Charley !" 

"Arthur,"  said  the  Doctor  in  an  even  fainter  voice  than 


48  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

before,  "I  had  thought  better  of  your  intelligence.  Well, 
we'll  talk  about  something  else." 

In  the  pause  that  followed,  Bessie  heard  the  hall  clock 
ticking.  She  realised  that  this  murmuring  on  the  part  of  her 
adopted  father  and  explosiveness  on  the  part  of  her  uncle 
must  have  been  just  another  of  the  only  semi-intelligible 
wrangles  between  older  people.  It  touched  her  conscious 
ness  only  as  blurry  noise  that  distracted  her  a  little  from  con 
templation  of  the  pictures.  Her  father  and  her  uncle  were 
always  arguing  something — usually  something  that  seemed 
to  her  incredibly  uninteresting.  Meanwhile  Dr.  Gedney,  ris 
ing  to  get  his  briar  pipe  from  the  table,  discovered  her  pres 
ence. 

"Doing,  Bessie?"  he  asked. 

"A — ah,"  Bessie  exhaled  in  a  soft  sigh. 

"Reading,"  with  a  comfortable  unction. 

"  'Gil  Bias",  said  the  Doctor,  looking.  "Too  old  for  you." 
To  him  she  remained  about  eight  years  old. 

"Fun,"  returned  Bessie  succinctly. 

"Damn — excuse  me,"  said  the  Doctor  stumbling  on  the 
rug.  "Where's  my  pipe?" 

"On  the  Bible,"  said  Bessie  without  looking  up.  She 
turned  a  page. 

The  Doctor  refilled  his  pipe  at  the  green  bowl  on  the 
table  and  made  some  pother  about  getting  it  to  draw. 
Bessie,  regarding  him  from  behind  his  back,  thought  him  a 
straight  and  nice-looking  father.  She  felt  sorry  for  him,  in 
the  way  all  women  do. 

Uncle  Arthur  was  running  his  large  hands  through  his 
hair.  He  felt  somewhat  put  upon  by  the  discovery  of  Bessie. 
Nevertheless . 

"Phryne  has  four  chicks,  Bess!"  he  boomed. 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Bessie,  raising  a  flushed  beaming  counten 
ance  from  the  estimation  of  a  wood-cut.  "Oh,  I  must  see 
them!" 

Outside  the  house  the  late  spring  afternoon  was  still 
bright.  The  low-ceilinged  long  brown  room,  with  its  two 


UNCLE  ARTHUR  THINKS  NOTHING  OF  IT     49 

book-cluttered  tables  and  its  walls  of  glass-doored  book 
cases,  was  mellowed  with  late  light.  Uncle  Arthur,  before 
the  empty  fireplace,  seemed  a  romantic,  somewhat  Falstaffian 
figure. 

'To-morrow,"  he  announced,  "come  round  in  the  morn 
ing.  They're  in  the  brood  coop.  I  must  go.  Charley,  do 
not  be  a  fool.  I've  told  you  my  reasons. " 

He  glared,  yet  with  a  certain  benignancy,  upon  Dr.  Ged- 
ney. 

"Oh,  it's  settled,"  said  the  Doctor's  wispy  voice  that  so 
belied  his  authoritative  face.  "But  you'll  see." 

"Well — great  hippopotami !"  ejaculated  Uncle  Arthur  de 
spairingly,  and  departed  with  rolling  gait  from  the  room. 
In  the  hall  and  before  the  hall-door  slammed,  Bessie  heard 
him  conclude  with  superb  abnegation, 

"As  for  me — I  utterly  refuse  to  be  a  party  to  it.  I  repeat 
that  I  think  absolutely  nothing  of  it — nothing  whatever !" 


CHAPTER  VII:     BESSIE,  SOLUS 

THE  design,  topped  by  two  reclining  cupids  who  sup 
ported  a  medallion  with  plump  shoulders  and  faced  out 
wards  to  confront  two  balancing  butterflies,  enclosed  what 
looked  like  a  black  slate.    On  it,  in  white  lettering,  stood  the 
words : 

HERE 

Is  INTERRED 
THE  SOUL 

OF  THE  LICENTIATE 
PETER  GARCIAS 

This  volume  of  the  picaresque  adventures  of  the  Sage  of 
Santillane  was  Smollett's  translation  illustrated  by  Jean 
Gigoux.  The  book  was  backed  with  tooled  almost  olive 
green  leather.  It  had  leather  corners.  Its  boards  were 
covered  inside  and  out  with  that  streaked  paper  used  for 
legal  volumes,  looking  as  if  bands  of  color  had  run  on  a 
stained  glass  pane  and  congealed  in  irregular  layers  of  drops. 
Blue,  yellow  and  green,  on  an  ox-blood  foundation. 

Aqui  est  a  encerranda  et  alma  del  Pedro  Garcias!  Bessie 
pondered  the  finding  of  the  hundred  ducats  in  the  leathern 
purse  under  the  tombstone.  One  hundred  ducats — the  soul 
of  the  Licentiate!  Yet  the  adventures  were  said  to  contain 
"moral  instructions."  The  idea  that  Alain  Rene  Le  Sage 
had  also  made  a  paraphrastic  translation  of  the  Letters  of 
Aristenetus  delighted  her.  She  had  such  a  wholly  dim  and 
glamorous  idea  of  what  it  might  all  be  about.  "The  Devil 
on  Two  Sticks."  That  was  another  name  that  intrigued  her. 
Le  Sage's  character  was  said  to  have  been  "truly  amiable". 
This  pleased  her  especially.  She  smiled  to  herself. 

50 


BESSIE,  SOLUS  51 

At  the  top  of  Book  IV  an  engraving  of  Gil  Bias  reclin 
ing  on  a  couch  and  reading  in  a  long-paged  narrow  book  was, 
to  her  mind,  extremely  well  drawn.  His  face,  with  its  sparse 
square  beard  and  aristocratic  mustache,  his  romantic  cam 
bric  shirt  with  open  collar  and  deep  rolled-back  cuffs,  be 
came,  as  she  gazed,  the  very  face  and  habiliments  of  her 
Ideal.  The  hands  were  well-treated,  the  left  especially,  in  a 
position  that  showed  the  draughtsman's  knowledge  of  anat 
omy.  On  the  other  hand,  how  monstrously  insipid  was  the 
picture  of  the  jade  Laura  on  the  page  preceding !  What  an 
idiot  mouth.  If  that  were  a  coquette!  She  was  so  much 
more  convincing  in  the  thumbnail  panel,  the  various  faces  of 
her  "crowd  of  relations"  so  amusing.  But  living  with  the 
seven  deadly  sins  must,  somehow,  have  been  quite  too 
treacly.  Gil  Bias  had  surely  exhibited  his  good  sense  by 
revolting  from  it. 

The  pages  of  the  book  were  rough  and  yellowed,  and  the 
queer  pictures  seemed  rooted  in  the  text.  In  modern  books 
they  were  so  detached,  so  unlike  the  people  one  imagined. 
These  seemed  to  fit  better,  even  at  their  worst.  How  many 
initial  letters,  tailpieces,  thumbnail  decorations  and  vignettes 
there  were!  That  seemed  the  only  way  a  book  should  be 
illustrated — in  some  such  apparently  impromptu  fashion. 
The  "go-to,"  formal  sort  of  pictures,  were  the  worst;  posy, 
attitudinizing,  simpering,  losing  all  grace  and  motion  of  line, 
hard  and  wooden.  That  sketch  of  the  horrible  face  of  the 
crone  Leonarda  on  page  fifty-eight,  just  a  bare  outline,  but 
worth  a  hundred  Spencerian-haired  Lauras.  That  was  it, 
such  drawing  was  like  those  flourishy  eagles  with  sheaves  of 
arrows  in  their  claws  that  went  with  advertisements  of 
courses  in  "expert  penmanship."  Ugh!  How  she  hated 
Spencerian  handwriting ! 

Bessie  suddenly  raised  her  eyes  from  the  page  and  won 
dered  what  Uncle  Arthur's  "reasons"  had  been.  They  must 
have  been  divulged  before  her  wraithlike  entry  into  the  liv 
ing  room.  She  came  even  farther  awake  from  the  book 
upon  her  knee  and  her  fascination  with  its  illustrations. 


52  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

What  was  her  father's  plan?  Was  he  going  to  do  what  she 
asked?  She  shoved  the  big  leather-backed  book  into  its 
opening  in  the  shelf  and  remained  on  her  knees  for  a  mo 
ment,  thinking.  Then  she  dusted  her  hands,  scrambled  up, 
and  went  slimly  into  the  hall,  arms  at  sides,  thin  hands  point 
ing  slightly  behind  her.  She  tilted  on  her  toes  and  peered. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  rather  dim  hall.  Her  father  had 
gone  into  his  study  (which  should  have  been  the  parlor)  on 
the  other  side  of  the  newel-posted  stair-foot.  There  he 
would  be  refilling  his  pipe  from  the  hammered  brass  bowl  at 
the  large  table.  He  would  be  doing  it  by  the  open  window 
that  looked  out  on  the  side  yard  where  the  leaves  of  the 
apple-tree  glittered  in  the  six  o'clock  sunlight. 

The  hall  was  dim  and  somewhat  dingy.  Bessie  climbed 
the  stairs.  Oh,  that  was  it — of  course !  Uncle  Arthur  didn't 
want  Mrs.  Ventress  to  teach  her  drawing.  She  wondered 
again  as  to  his  "reasons". 

Bessie's  room  had  a  marble  mantlepiece  over  a  now  empty 
coal  grate.  The  China  Animals  were  its  chief  feature. 
These  were  mainly  an  array  of  those  fascinating  families  one 
could  procure  some  twenty  years  ago  in  small  brown  paste 
board  boxes  stuffed  with  cotton.  They  had  been  bequeathed 
her  by  her  cousin,  Slade  Breckinridge,  an  editor  on  the 
Colosseum  Magazine  in  New  York.  Slade's  typhoid  at  the 
age  of  six,  when  he  had  lost  his  curls  and  the  gnome-like 
voice  of  his  emaciated  convalescence  had  croaked  at  his 
mother,  "Pack  boxes!" — was  the  primary  association  these 
tiny  purplish  spaniels,  bears  and  deer  evoked.  Bessie  had 
been  told  it  many  times  by  Aunt  Sally.  Then  there  was  the 
"gentle  face"  dog  (first  g  hard,  as  in  gutter).  He  had  abided 
with  sundry  chippings  and  regluings  from  the  same  precari 
ous  past.  There  were  the  See,  Hear  and  Speak-No-Evil 
Monkeys,  in  their  bright  jackets,  given  her  by  Slade  on  his 
return  from  that  trip  to  San  Francisco.  There  was  Eunice, 
the  china  cow,  forever  at  grazing  gaze  with  a  slight  cast  in 
her  eye  and  one  foreleg  gone  at  the  knee.  Eunice  had  an 
incision  in  her  back.  She  was  a  bank.  The  Chinaness  of  the 


BESSIE,  SOLUS  53 

Animals  gleamed  across  Bessie's  bedroom.  Dimity  curtains 
fluttered  at  her  window.  The  woolly  brown  hearthrug  un 
der  the  black  tin  shield  of  the  grate  was  often  a  seat  more 
favoured  than  either  the  cretonned  wicker  basket-chair  or  the 
gray  corduroy  cushioned  window-seat.  She  dove  now  for 
the  hearthrug  and  sat  quiet  upon  it,  in  the  dusk,  under  the 
China  Animals,  nursing  her  knees. 

She  breathed  a  name  all  to  herself,  after  a  moment.  Her 
thoughts  were  in  another  house  entirely.  Her  expression 
was  dreamy  and  benign.  "Adda!"  said  Bessie.  "Adela!" 
And  then,  with  enormous  satisfaction,  "I  simply  didn't  know 
there  were  such  people !"  There  was  a  pleasant  sympathetic 
silence.  Bessie  cupped  her  chin  in  both  palms.  "She  gives 
you  the  impression,"  pronounced  the  young  pythoness  sol 
emnly  and  finally,  "of — of  a  great  unhappy  grandeur!" 

But  even  by  this  last  remark  the  China  Animals  seemed  to 
remain  quite  unimpressed. 


CHAPTER  VIII:    "THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED 
UP" 

DR.  GEDNEY  did  not  practice  medicine.  He  had  been 
an  instructor  at  the  Tupton  Institute.  Now  he  had  re 
lapsed  into  doing  nothing  much,  so  far  as  Tupton  could  dis 
cover.  He  had  written  several  school-books.  He  was  now 
engaged,  it  was  rumoured,  upon  a  history  of  Meldon  County. 
His  father  had  been  old  Judge  Gedney  of  the  Circuit  Court. 
Dr.  Gedney  himself  had  a  Litt.D.  from  a  small  New  Eng 
land  college. 

His  wife's  death  had  driven  a  naturally  recluse  tempera 
ment  even  more  in  upon  itself,  that  and  the  loss  of  his  daugh 
ter.  Yet  there  were  those  who  let  it  be  understood  that  they 
considered  him  better  off  since  his  wife  had  died.  "She  was 
certainly  very  peculiar,"  Mrs.  Harris,  the  stoic  of  Sycamore 
Street,  would  often  allow,  folding  stout,  work-creased  hands 
in  her  ample  lap.  Mrs.  Harris  spoke  little  and  was  rarely 
moved  toward  censure.  She  knew  what  she  knew  about  life, 
but  she  kept  it  mostly  to  herself.  She  irradiated  benignancy. 
Hers  was  a  strong  character  that  had  endured  much  with 
out  embitterment.  But  when  she  said  that  about  Mrs.  Ged 
ney,  now  fifteen  years  deceased,  her  eyes  narrowed  a  little 
and  her  mouth  was  firm. 

Miss  Sophia  Crome,  whose  house  was  the  last  in  the  Old 
Residence  Block  at  the  corner  of  Monument  and  Oak,  was 
of  the  opposite  opinion.  But  then  Miss  Crome  would  doubt 
less  have  found  the  personality  of  John  Calvin  wholly 
charming.  She  was  a  relic — was  Miss  Crome.  At  least,  that 
was  what  Uncle  Arthur  called  her:  "That  relic!"  He  never 
got  any  farther  in  his  description.  It  was  Miss  Crome's 
opinion  that  Mrs.  Gedney  had  been  "a  most  upright 

54 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"       55 

She  said  that  with  an  unctuous  pursing  of  dry 
lips.  Her  steel  spectacles  glimmered  like  the  eyes  of  a  cat 
as  she  said  it. 

As  for  Dr.  Gedney,  he  rarely  saw  any  neighbours.  He 
read,  wrote,  or  pottered  about  his  yard  during  the  day. 
He  read  with  or  without  Bessie  at  home  in  the  even 
ings.  He  and  Bessie  usually  had  dinner  at  the  Pollocks' 
once  a  week.  Several  times  a  week  he  and  Uncle  Arthur 
would  play  checkers  together,  visiting  each  other's  homes. 
But  most  of  his  life  was  submerged  in  that  other  life  af 
forded  by  books.  He  read  chiefly  philosophy  and  history 
(pastimes  unbewildering,  even  fascinating,  to  his  retentive 
memory  and  analytical  mind).  Contemporary  affairs,  the 
affairs  of  the  town  of  Tupton,  made  little  impression  upon 
him.  He  poked  his  pipe  full  of  rather  rank  tobacco,  with 
one  long,  lean  forefinger,  and  went  on  reading. 

Bessie  went  in  and  out  of  his  house  as  she  listed.  He 
usually  knew  why  she  was  out — at  school,  at  the  gymnasium, 
at  the  library,  at  the  Brattles,  at  the  Corneliuses.  It  was  one 
of  those  places.  She  was  a  dear  child,  dark  and  quiet  and 
quite  fond  of  reading.  With  a  head  in  the  air  of  her  own. 
No  need  to  worry  about  her.  Arthur  worried  entirely  too 
much.  Arthur  was  so  fussy.  Fussiness  ran  in  that  family. 
Dr.  Gedney  smiled  a  sad,  haunted  smile.  Ineffably  silly  of 
Arthur,  this  last  business.  .  .  . 

Bessie's  father  was  sitting  in  a  large  leather  chair  by  the 
window.  The  seams  of  the  back  of  it  had  burst  and  the 
black  horsehair  stuffing  was  apparent.  He  arose  now,  in  his 
absent-minded  way,  and  went  over  to  his  desk  by  the  south 
wall.  After  some  fumbling  he  produced  from  a  side-drawer 
an  oblong  box  of  unpainted  tin.  There  was  more  fumbling 
with  his  key-ring,  which  he  wore  at  the  end  of  his  watch- 
chain  instead  of  a  watch.  His  watch  he  always  carried 
without  fob  or  other  attachment  in  his  upper  vest-pocket  on 
the  right-hand  side.  That  was  typical.  Yet  he  had  not 
broken  the  crystal  once  in  ten  years.  That  also  was  typical. 
He  was  an  unhandy  man  though.  The  key  stuck  in  the  lock 


56  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

of  the  box  and  he  made  some  pother  getting  it  open.  He 
kept  saying  something  softly  under  his  breath.  As  a  matter 
of  record  the  words  were,  "Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear.  .  .  ."  They 
were  his  habitual  method  of  expression  of  his  sense  of  minor 
annoyances. 

In  the  box,  with  some  other  papers,  was  a  small  packet 
secured  by  a  rubber  band.  Beside  this  band  were  traces  of 
another,  dark  vestiges  of  rubber.  The  packet  had  at  one 
time  been  put  away  for  a  long  period.  The  paper  in  the 
packet  proved  somewhat  discoloured  and  faded  as  Dr.  Ged- 
ney  unfolded  it.  He  removed  the  outer  sheet  and  spread 
it  out  upon  his  knee.  It  was  the  first  picture  she  had  ever 
drawn. 

Three  remarkable  individuals  could  be  distinguished  in 
the  foreground.  The  hat  of  one  floated  in  a  detached  man 
ner  half  an  inch  above  its  head.  The  arms  and  legs  were 
excessively  spidery.  The  hands  were  equipped  with  at  least 
ten  skeleton  fingers  arranged  like  rays.  The  faces  of  the 
figures  were  noseless  and  their  eyes  and  mouths  were  large 
wobbly  circles.  This  gave  them  an  aspect  of  breathless  sur 
prise.  Their  hair  was  a  voluminous  huddle  of  scratchy  lines. 
To  their  left  a  house  half  their  height  and  even  narrower 
than  any  one  bulging  body  blazed  merrily  with  carmine 
water-color  flames.  In  the  midst  of  it  stood  "The  Girl  Who 
Was  Burned  Up".  She  was  twice  as  tall  as  the  house  and 
bore  a  certain  weird  facial  resemblance  to  a  cat.  Her  writh 
ing  mien  expressed  considerable  discomfort.  This  effort  at 
art  was  entitled  "The  Flight  of  the  Family".  The  printing 
necessary  to  display  the  slogan  properly  wandered  all  over 
the  bottom  half  of  the  large  sheet  of  ruled  tablet  paper.  The 
printed  letters  were  enormous  and  askew. 

Dr  Gedney  had  seated  himself  with  the  tin  box  in  his  lap. 
He  studied  the  picture  without  smiling.  His  eyes  wandered 
from  it  and  came  to  rest  on  a  large  framed  photograph  in  the 
shadow  of  the  southeast  corner  of  the  room.  It  had  been 
done  by  that  man  in  Barrack  Falls. 

Gertrude  had  looked  nothing  like  her.    It  was  astonishing 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"       57 

that  any  mother  and  daughter  could  have  so  little  resem 
bled  each  other.  Martha  had  always  taken  a  good  photo 
graph.  The  querulous  lines  about  the  mouth  had  been 
retouched  away  in  the  photograph.  The  hard  glint  in  the 
eyes  was  not  apparent.  The  bearing  of  the  sitter  possessed 
dignity.  The  thin  aquiline  nose  alone  gave  indication  in  its 
curve  of  nostril  of  that  remorseless,  accipitrine  will.  Yet 
the  mouth  was  smiling  a  little.  The  pose  was  placid.  Mar 
tha's  figure  had  always  been  rather  graceful.  Her  head, 
with  its  now  absurdly  out-of-date  bonnet,  was  held  high. 
Her  burnt-umber  hair  had  its  decided  fluffiness.  Her  large 
hands  clutched  each  other  in  her  lap.  It  was  an  example  of 
photography  before  the  days  of  softening  artistic  shadows 
and  blurred  outlines  and  backgrounds.  Simply  a  likeness. 
A  very  good  likeness — in  everything  but  the  essentials  of 
character.  A  proud  and  resolute  woman,  you  would  have 
said,  but  possessed  also  of  wisdom  and  kindliness.  That 
was  how  most  of  them  had  seen  her,  he  supposed.  Yes,  he 
supposed  so. 

It  was  strange  about  Martha.  Martha  had  always  acted 
from  the  first  as  if,  if  he  had  not  actually  ever  been  unfaith 
ful  to  her,  he  were,  nevertheless,  always  upon  the  verge  of 
being  so.  This  attitude  was  implicit.  It  had  been  conveyed 
for  many  years  by  an  accumulation  of  eyebrow-raisings, 
acrid  half-sentences,  slight  shrugs,  impatient  sighs,  hours  of 
taciturn  surveillance.  It  had  been  emphasized  by  furious 
unexplained  tearfulness  that  ceased  as  swiftly  as  it  came, 
typhoons  of  unreasonableness  that  whirled  and  passed. 
Completely  erased,  so  far  as  Martha  was  concerned,  but  not 
from  his  own  consciousness.  Phenomena  of  woman  nature. 
These  exhibitions  did  not  occur,  either,  at  those  times  when 
all  women  are  overwrought  and  strange  to  themselves. 
They  were  not  the  result  of  illness  or  poor  health.  They 
were  simply  habitual.  In  self-defense,  Dr.  Gedney  had  come 
to  disregard  them  entirely.  He  could  never  hope  to  unravel 
the  devious  tangle  of  reasoning — or  was  it  merely  perverted 
instinct — which  precipitated  them  upon  him.  He  had  tried 


i58  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

to  analyze  in  the  earlier  days,  to  explain  Martha  to  herself. 
A  disastrous  idea !  Then  he  had  tried  to  discover  in  himself 
the  faults  and  shortcomings  that  might  account  for  Martha's 
suspicions.  He  had  tried  to  remedy  them.  But  he  groped 
in  the  dark. 

Yet,  in  tender  moments  that  constantly  grew  fewer,  she 
softened  and  became  again  some  likeness  of  the  girl  he  had 
loved,  standing  under  the  peach-trees  of  her  father's  farm. 
She  was  again,  fleetmgly,  the  kind-eyed  person  in  whose 
voice  he  could  never  have  imagined  that  harsh  querulousness, 
in  whose  heart  he  would  never  have  thought  of  suspecting 
that  self-consuming  frenzy  of  jealousy.  Here  also  was  no 
matter  of  spirit  fighting  body  and  agonising  a  delicately- 
adjusted  soul  between  two  intense  passions.  Dr.  Gedney 
had  always  exercised  punctilious  consideration  toward  his 
wife.  Martha  cared  little  for  the  pleasures  of  the  mind. 
She  was  a  regular  church-goer.  She  was  regular  in  the 
conventional  duties  of  housekeeping.  But  from  the  first 
moment  she  had  entered  their  new  home  she  had  commenced 
a  frustrated  brooding.  She  made  few  friends.  In  the  early 
days  she  had  seemed  ardent.  He  had  loved  her,  certainly, 
both  with  passion  and  devotion.  But  gradually  she  had  re 
vealed  herself  in  intimacy  as  what  he  came  to  privately  call 
"a  secret  woman."  She  read  little  and  soon  lost  interest  in 
his  study  and  teaching,  save  as  the  means  which  procured 
them  their  livelihood.  She  allowed  its  claims  up  to  a  cer 
tain  point.  But  if,  in  scholarly  absorption,  he  transgressed 
the  tacitly-understood  time-limit  of  devotion  to  these  mat 
ters  by  so  much  as  fifteen  minutes,  there  was  always  immi 
nence  of  hurricane.  His  natural  absent-mindedness  had 
fought  against  him  in  this  regard  for  years.  He  had  striven 
to  conquer  it.  How  faint  the  victory  had  been  was  shown 
by  the  fact  that  after  her  death  he  had  easily  relapsed  into  his 
old  bookwormish  habits.  Yet  that  very  absent-mindedness 
had  appeared  to  be  one  of  his  peculiar  charms  to  her  during 
their  courtship.  It  was  an  odd  mismating. 

It  was  not  excitement  or  gaiety  that  she  desired.    At  first 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"       59! 

he  had  actually  proved  more  gregarious  than  she.  But  all 
simple  foregatherings  became  a  strain.  Afterward  a  mood 
he  had  never  understood  settled  upon  her.  She  looked  side- 
wise  at  him  with  deep  suspicion.  She  said  cutting  things 
that  misinterpreted  and  perverted  his  innermost  thoughts. 
Such  misunderstanding  at  first  aroused  chill  surprise,  then 
protest.  Then  came  dumbness.  How  could  he  ever  make 
her  see  ?  There  came  also,  with  time,  a  mechanical  deafness 
to  insinuation.  An  elaborate  ritual  of  forgetting  was  formu 
lated.  It  served,  finally.  It  was  like  repeating  a  cabalistic 
sentence.  Boiled  down,  it  doubtless  seems  ridiculously 
naive.  Its  sum  and  substance  were  the  words,  eternally  re 
peated  in  his  thought,  "Pay  no  attention,  pay  no  attention, 
pay  no  attention!" 

The  pass  to  which  he  came  increased  his  insulation  from 
intuitive  contacts  with  actual  life.  His  absentmindedness 
had  already  begun,  the  instinct  for  self-preservation  had 
completed  the  process.  Charles  Gedney  began  to  move 
through  life  like  a  noctambulist.  He  also  stood  in  the  midst 
of  his  married  life  like  Abednego  in  the  furnace.  Sometimes 
the  heat  of  that  irradiating  jealousy  might  have  shrivelled  his 
soul  if  he  had  not  refused  to  be  conscious  of  it.  It  took  such 
strange  forms.  He  had  even  known  it  to  obtain  to  a  fav 
ourite  chair  of  his,  to  a  stray  cat  he  had  fed  with  milk  and 
kept  in  the  house  overnight,  to  a  term's  examination  papers. 

Yet  she  did  not  desire  a  passionate  devotion.  Not  at  all. 
She  simply  doubted  entirely  and  yet  desired  entire  allegiance. 
He  had  never  been  critical  of  her  thought  or  action.  Mildly 
remonstrative  on  occasion,  perhaps.  But  even  such  mild 
remonstrances  added  fuel  to  the  furnace.  In  one  aspect  it 
was  supremely  pathetic,  this  coinstantaneous  wretchedness, 
and  rage  that  his  every  thought  could  not  be  completely  hers. 
The  many  other  women  she  imagined  existed  only  in  her 
imagination.  But  that  made  them  no  less  actual  to  her.  And 
a  wildly  passionate  nature  in  bond  to  a  narrow,  fearful,  un- 
discriminating  mind,  fashioned  brightly  burning  hell  of  her 
peculiar  temperament. 


60  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Gertrude  had  been  born  in  a  period  of  comparative  peace, 
though  to  outward  appearances  the  Gedney  household  was 
never  otherwise.  Gertrude  had  been  loved  hungrily  by  her 
mother  through  her  earliest  years.  She  was  more  drawn 
toward  her  father.  A  tragic  triangular  situation  came  into 
being.  First  it  was  that  her  mother  occupied  the  position  of 
slaving  for  Gertrude,  while  Gertrude  besieged  a  somewhat 
disturbed  father  with  endearments.  Some  premonition  told 
Charles  Gedney  what  might  come  of  his  too  easy  and  natu 
ral  manifestation  of  parental  pleasure.  But  he  came  to  think 
that  Gertrude  had  charms  to  soothe  any  breast,  to  obliterate 
the  strained  strangeness  of  past  years.  Besides,  she  was  too 
entirely  adorable  and  amusing  in  her  attentions.  He  remem 
bered  the  very  hour  when  he  had  seen  his  mistake — inevit 
able  perhaps. 

It  was  the  story  of  "The  Three  Bears".  Gertrude  had 
come  into  his  study  uninvited  and  had  sidled  up  to  the  desk 
where  he  was  correcting  papers  about  five  o'clock  of  a  rainy 
Sunday  afternoon  in  the  Fall.  She  stood  by  the  side  of  the 
desk  with  her  large  brown  eyes  and  floppy  curls.  A  flat 
green  book  was  clutched  to  her  side. 

"You  will  read,"  she  said  in  her  amusingly  solemn  voice, 
with  its  intonation  unconsciously  imitated  from  that  of  her 
mother,  "here."  Then  she  held  the  book  up  in  front  of  her 
face  in  an  embarrassed  manner.  Then  she  laughed.  Ger 
trude's  early  laughter  could  almost  be  said  to  crinkle  her 
hair.  It  filled  the  small  face  with  delightful  animation. 
Suddenly  she  was  beside  him,  clasping  him  round  the  arm 
tightly  and  burying  her  curls  in  his  sleeve.  She  looked  up 
again,  mischievously,  and  began  to  climb  upon  his  knee.  He 
gave  over  Latin  exercises  for  the  afternoon. 

It  was  half  through  the  story  of  "The  Three  Bears"  that 
Martha  appeared  in  the  doorway.  Though  not  a  particu 
larly  thin  woman  she  had  a  way  of  looking  gaunt  upon 
occasion.  She  stood  in  the  door  Gertrude  had  left  open  and 
regarded  the  two  figures  silhouetted  against  the  sunset  light 
of  the  window.  Gertrude  was  curled  in  her  father's  lap. 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"       61 

His  head  was  bent  to  read  properly.  It  was  almost  time  to 
light  the  gas. 

"Gertrude,  you  have  disobeyed  me,"  said  Martha  in  a 
queer,  repressed  tone. 

Gertrude  looked  up  and  brushed  the  brown  curls  back 
from  her  face  with  a  small  hand.  "Father's  readin' !"  she 
said  succinctly. 

"Gertrude,  you  have  disobeyed  me,"  repeated  Martha  in 
that  same  strained  tone.  As  Charles  Gedney  peered  round 
his  small  daughter's  shoulder  at  his  wife  her  eyes  actually 
seemed  to  him  to  gleam  like  a  cat's  in  the  gathering  shadows 
of  the  room?  It  was  an  impression  he  was  a  long  time  for 
getting.  "I'm  reading  to  her,"  said  the  husband,  his  soul 
suddenly  shaken  by  a  strange  tremor  that  he  did  not  like  to 
acknowledge. 

"Gertrude,  come  here,"  said  Mrs.  Gedney,  as  if  unaware 
of  the  intrusion  of  his  remark. 

For  answer  Gertrude  clasped  both  arms  about  her  father's 
neck  and  he  felt  her  whole  small  body  quiver  as  she  snuggled 
farther  into  his  arms. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Martha?  What  is  it?  What  is  it, 
Gertrude?"  the  confused  man  asked. 

"I  am  speaking  to  Gertrude,"  said  his  wife.  She  had 
moved  farther  into  the  room.  By  the  conflagration  of  the 
sunset  without,  which  now  lit  the  room  with  weird  brilliance, 
he  suddenly  perceived  the  glittering  tears  in  her  eyes.  But 
her  features  were  set  in  a  strange  inexorable  mould. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  said  again,  uncomfortably. 
"Won't  you  explain  to  me?"  Gertrude's  head  burrowed 
further  into  his  waistcoat. 

"I  am  speaking  to  Gertrude,"  his  wife  repeated.  "If  she 
does  not  choose  to  hear  me " 

"But  what  has  she  done?  What  is  it,  Martha?  I  was 
just  reading  her  a  story.  Surely " 

He  had  made  a  bad  blunder.  There  was  a  hint,  if  only 
a  hint,  of  aggravation  in  his  tone,  but  worse  than  that,  there 
was  a  hint  of  partnership  in  this  difference,  with  Gertrude, 


62  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

and  a  suspicion,  unbearable  to  his  wife,  that  he  perceived  an 
emotion  in  her  which  she  had  never  admitted  to  herself. 

"Is — is  this  my  child  or  yours?"  The  voice  seemed 
strained  almost  to  breaking.  It  was  not  her  ordinary  voice. 
"Gertrude,"  this  strange  voice  said  again,  and  this  time  it 
quavered  with  a  note  of  hysteria,  "Come  here — at  once !" 

"Shan't",  vouchsafed  Gertrude  muffled  into  her  father's 
watch  pocket.  But  he  was  sure  that  only  he  had  heard  it. 

Suddenly  Martha  Gedney's  face  broke  into  one  of  those 
distortions  that  precede  weeping.  Her  arms  shook  at  her 
sides.  She  controlled  her  features  by  a  violent  effort.  She 
turned.  With  a  fierce  rustle  of  her  dress  she  left  the  room. 
But  not  before  she  had  directed  at  the  two  a  glance  the  in 
tensity  of  which  Dr.  Gedney  had  never  forgotten.  Her 
teeth  had  showed  above  her  lower  lip  as  her  eyes  blazed 
green. 

The  instant  her  mother  left  the  room,  Gertrude's  head  had 
bobbed  up.  With  another  shock,  Dr.  Gedney  perceived  that 
she  was  laughing.  His  involuntary  championship  had  been 
for  a  child  in  terror.  But  Gertrude  was  gay. 

"Nice  Fa-ther,"  she  said  in  her  rich  drawl.  "Poo-oor 
Maw-ther,"  she  added  astonishingly.  She  slipped  hastily 
from  his  arms  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 

The  next  development  had  been  that,  on  ascending  the 
stairs,  Dr.  Gedney  had  found  Gertrude  beating  at  her 
Mother's  locked  door  with  soft  calls  to  her  within.  There 
was  no  response.  The  questions,  and  then  the  entreaties  of 
Dr.  Gedney  elecited  no  response  either.  Finally  there  came 
a  single  harsh,  "Go  away!" 

In  misery  of  mind  he  gave  Gertrude  her  supper  and  put 
her  to  bed.  In  the  same  misery  and  growing  fear  of  what 
might — though  it  seemed  a  nightmarish  impossibility — hap 
pen  behind  that  locked  door,  he  tried  to  eat  his  evening  meal, 
and  cursed  himself  for  his  nerves.  In  the  midst  of  the  meal 
he  heard  a  footstep  on  the  stair  and  his  wife  walked  into  the 
room.  Her  hair  showed  no  disorder,  her  eyes  no  trace  of 
tears,  her  face  was  composed  though  unsmiling.  "You  can 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"        63 

help  me  to  some  of  those  scrambled  eggs,"  she  remarked  in 
her  peremptory  manner,  unfolding  her  napkin. 

Neither  then  nor  thereafter  was  the  incident  of  her 
father's  reading  to  Gertrude  alluded  to  between  them.  He 
read  to  her  afterwards,  frequently.  But  from  that  moment 
he  perceived  the  change  between  mother  and  daughter. 
Now  it  was  the  small  person  who  had  to  sue  for  attention. 
The  indifference  of  her  mother  became  a  permanent  silent 
indictment.  And  often  now  the  small  cheeks  burned  from 
the  irradiation  of  the  furnace.  Nothing  was  said,  everything 
was  implied.  After  repeated  repulses  of  affection,  Gertrude 
lived  through  her  most  bitter  moment  of  deep  realisation. 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  she  ran  away  from  home  at 
the  age  of  sixteen,  and  Tupon  had  never  seen  her  again. 
There  had  been — after  a  merely  formal  relation  for  several 
years — a  most  violent  difference  of  opinion  with  her  mother 
as  to  the  choice  of  a  career.  It  was  a  scene  Dr.  Gedney  had 
come  in  upon  about  eight  o'clock  one  July  evening,  after  a 
visit  to  the  Pollocks — a  scene  he  never  sought  to  remember 
and  hustled  from  his  thought  as  soon  as  it  began  to  be 
visualized.  And  Martha  had  accepted  Gertrude's  disap 
pearance  far  more  stoically  than  anyone  else  in  the  town. 
In  fact,  he  had  once  or  twice  caught  her  smiling  a  strange 
secret  smile  to  herself.  Some  years  later  she  had  adopted 
the  orphan  baby  of  her  brother,  George  Cripps,  whose  wife 
had  died  several  years  before  he  himself  had  been  killed  in  a 
railway  accident  just  beyond  Barrack  Falls.  Then,  sud 
denly,  after  a  brief  illness,  Martha  herself  had  died  with 
stony  decision. 

*         *         * 

Only  a  minute  or  two  had  elapsed  since  Dr.  Gedney  had 
first  taken  up  the  drawing  of  "The  Girl  Who  Was  Burned 
Up."  He  roused  himself  with  a  sigh  and  replaced  it  in  the 
tin  box.  He  replaced  the  tin  box  in  the  desk  drawer.  There 
was  Annie's  step  in  the  hall.  The  door  squeaked  its  usual 
squeak  as  she  gingerly  opened  it. 

"Supper's  ready,  sir." 


64  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Thank  you,  Annie.     Call  Miss  Bessie." 

But  Bessie's  own  voice  said  from  behind  the  portly, 
kindly-faced  figure, 

"I'm  all  ready,  father." 

They  sat  down  in  the  pleasant  dining-room  to  the  blue  and 
white  china  and  the  jade  bowl  on  the  centerpiece  wherein 
Bessie  had  just  arranged  some  nasturtiums  from  the  border. 
Bessie  fidgeted  a  little  upon  her  chair  and  then  broke  a  raisin 
bun. 

"Uncle  Arthur's  funny,  isn't  he?"  she  ventured  with  an 
absent-minded  air. 

"Eh?"  said  Doctor  Gedney.  "Funny?  Oh,  yes.  Arthur 
is  amusing.  But  irritating,  sometimes,"  he  added. 

"Why?"  said  Bessie,  round-eyed. 

"Why,  Bess,  I  thought  that  was  what  you  meant.  You 
said  he  was  funny." 

"Oh,  no,  not  that  way.  He  doesn't  irritate  me  at  least. 
But  he's  so — so  pishing  and  pshawing." 

The  corners  of  her  father's  eyes  wrinkled  with  his  smile. 

"You  find  that  amusing?    It  is,  of  course." 

"What  were  his  reasons  ?" 

"Reasons  for  what?  Oh,  but — why,  when  were  you 
listening?  When  did  you  come  in?" 

"Oh,  Fa-ther,"  Bessie  laughed.  "You  are — you  are  ador 
able!" 

"Adorable?    How?" 

"Why,  I  was  there  all  the  time.  Just  quietly.  Don't  you 
know  I'm  always  there — quietly?" 

"Well  I  must  say !  Why,  of  course  I  don't  know  it.  You 
shouldn't  do  that,  Bess.  What  did  you  hear?" 

"Oh,  Uncle  Arthur  pishing  and  pshawing.  Why  doesn't 
he  like  Mrs.  Ventress?" 

The  question  came  in  a  more  serious  tone.  Dr.  Gedney 
regarded  his  younger  daughter — for  so  she  had  become  to 
him — with  surprised  eyes. 

"Well,  it  was  about  that,  if  you  want  to  know.  Of  course, 
Arthur " 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"        65 

"But  I  do  know.  He's  the  funniest  thing  about  women, 
don't  you  think?  He's  so  distrustful." 

Doctor  Gedney  looked  at  her  without  answering  immedi 
ately.  He  remembered  Arthur's  wife.  A  faint  ironic  smile 
tinged  his  lips.  They  were  all  in  the  same  boat — human 
beings. 

"Arthur,  I  admit,  is  rather  a  misogynist,"  he  said. 

"A  what  ?"  asked  Bessie.  "I  suppose  that  means  he  hates 
women.  Well,  he  does." 

"Not  hate  them,"  returned  her  father,  helping  himself  to 
another  creamed  potato.  "I  don't  suppose  he  does  trust 
them,  exactly.  Well,  his  reasons  were  rather  absurd  in  this 
case,  if  you  ask  me." 

"I  do.    What  were  they?" 

"He  simply  says  we  know  nothing  about  Mrs.  Ventress, 
and  that  I  haven't  even  seen  her  yet,  and  that,  being  a 
stranger  here,  she  may  be  anything  or  anybody,  and  that  she 
may  be  a  bad  influence  for  you — and — oh,  Arthur  is  rather 
annoying." 

"Amusing,"  substituted  Bessie.  "How  could  he  know" — 
her  eyes  took  on  again  that  far-away  expression.  "How 
could  he  poss-ibly  know "  She  left  her  sentence  un 
finished. 

"Know  what?" 

"My  dear  good  angel  father,"  said  his  daughter,  teetering 
on  her  chair  with  some  suppressed  excitement  and  waving  a 
creamed  potato  on  her  fork  as  if  she  were  conducting  an 
orchestra,  "how  could  you  know  either?" 

"What  on  earth  do  you  mean,  Bess  ?  Do  stop  waving  that 
thing.  What  is  it?" 

"Mrs.  Ventress,"  intoned  Bessie,  her  eyes  sparkling  with 
amusement  at  her  own  solemnity  of  utterance,  "is  a  mythical 
woman." 

"What  on  earth ?  Here,  have  a  bun.  What  on  earth 

do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"She  is  too  lovely.    I  simply  didn't  know  there  were  such 


66  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

people.  And,  oh,  Father,  she  can  draw  like  a  streak,"  she 
finished  hurriedly. 

"Yes,  that's  what  you  told  me.  But  I  must  see  her,  I 
suppose.  If  only  to  be  able  to  answer  Arthur  more  cate 
gorically.  He  never  will.  Catch  him  out  of  his  museum  or 
his  chicken  yards.  Yet  he  comes  around  and  paints  this 
direful  portrait " 

"My,  and  how  she  has  improved  that  house  already,"  ex 
claimed  his  daughter,  teetering  still  more  before  his  anxious 
eyes.  "The  loveliest  blue  curtains.  Oh,  she  does  look  so 
perfectly  adorable  in  that  big  grey  hat  when  she's  weeding. 
I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  Bessie  wondered,  her  eyes  blissful 
and  her  mouth  full  of  chop,  "why  she  should  have  taken  such 
a  fancy  to  me!" 

"Yes,  I  wonder,"  returned  Dr.  Gedney,  affectionately 
ironical.  "But  you  really  don't  know  much  about  her, 
Bessie,  after  all." 

"Plenty.  She's  true-blue.  You  can  tell.  And  she's  so 
interesting.  And  there  is,"  his  daughter's  voice  filled  with 
genuine  gravity,  "such  a  real  affinity  between  us." 

"Oh,  there  is,"  the  Doctor's  eyebrows  lifted  in  an  amazed 
way  and  he  laughed  suddenly  through  his  nose.  "Oh,  there 
is — I  must  say — well,  well  is  there  really?"  He  recovered 
his  gravity.  "Well,  Bess,  of  course  I  shall  have  to  look  into 
this — but,  I  dare  say  you're  right,  I  dare  say.  Affinity. 
Well,  well.  Remarkable.  Affinity.  Remarkable,  I  must 
say." 

"It's  a  perfectly  good  word,"  said  Bessie,  "isn't  it?" 

"To  be  sure.  Certainly.  A  perfectly  good  word.  Affinity. 
My  soul.  Yes,  of  course.  A  perfectly  good  word." 

It  was  easy  enough  to  see,  by  the  way  he  looked  at  her 
and  by  the  manner  of  his  teasing,  that  Doctor  Gedney  quite 
adored  his  adopted — and  now  his  only — child.  But  after 
sparkling,  his  eyes  dimmed  to  dreaminess  again.  Again  Ger 
trude  came  to  him,  but  this  time  as  the  girl  of  sixteen,  the 
girl  of  twenty-one  years  ago.  It  was  almost  as  if  she,  in 
stead  of  Bessie,  were  sitting  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table, 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"        67 

lifting  her  knapkin.  A  slight,  shadowy  figure  to  be  sure,  with 
braided  brown  hair,  and  eyes  of  a  thoughtful  brown  as  she 
lifted  them.  She  had  grown  up  a  silent  and  studious  girl 
who  kept  her  thoughts  to  herself.  She  had  read  much  with 
her  father  in  that  household  so  overshadowed  by  her 
mother's  strangeness.  Demonstrative  at  first,  and  flighty  in 
temperament,  the  growing  aloofness  and  attitude  of  morose 
disinterest  in  her  mother  had  gradually  changed  her.  Her 
school  life  became  her  main  interest.  She  moved  about  her 
home  intent  only  upon  the  books  she  was  studying.  Her 
happiest  hours  seemed  those  in  her  father's  study  of  an 
evening,  when  he  was  outlining  to  her  some  epoch  of  history 
or  helping  her  with  a  Latin  translation.  Then  her  eyes 
brightened  in  a  way  he  loved,  and  her  head  tilted  more  and 
more  on  one  side  in  some  animated  discussion.  She  kindled 
to  a  scene  in  history  or  to  a  beautiful  line  of  verse  with 
charming  exclamation  and  gesture.  But  at  meals  or  in  the 
library  living-room  she  was  almost  completely  silent  under 
the  continual  sidewise  scrutiny  of  her  mother.  What  she 
said  then  was  neither  inspired  or  delighted.  She  dealt  in 
practical  things,  ordinary  bits  of  town  news,  mere  requests 
for  things  on  the  table,  and  departed  as  soon  as  possible  to 
her  own  room  on  the  second  floor,  from  which  she  would 
descend  later  to  her  father's  study. 

Dr.  Gedney  usually  sat  alone  for  half  an  hour  or  so  with 
his  wife  after  supper.  Martha  Gedney  always  had  her  knit 
ting.  The  long  ivory  needles  clicked  continually.  Little  was 
said.  There  was  always  a  certain  amount  of  distrust  in  the 
occasional  glances  Martha  raised.  She  sat  rehearsing  in 
wardly  all  the  things  she  could  never  forgive.  The  dreamy 
scholar  opposite  searched  his  mind  for  the  millionth  time  or 
the  ways  of  his  offending.  Upstairs  for  this  half  hour  Ger 
trude  was  alone  with  her  green-shaded  lamp  and  her  scat 
tered  papers.  She  had  come  to  love  her  own  book-cluttered 
room  as  a  fortress  into  which  she  could  retire  from  the  at 
mosphere  of  the  house. 

The  ticking  click  of  the  ivory  needles,  that  long  stern  face 


68  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

above  them,  eyelids  dropped  as  the  compressed  lips  counted. 
"Spin,  spin,  Atropos,  spin —  The  intermittent  glitter  of 
raised  eyes  and  raised  needles.  Again  the  desolating  dili 
gence  of  dark  stitching. 

Dr.  Gedney  would  knock  out  his  pipe  carefully  into  the 
proper  receptacle  and  rise  with  an  embarassed  murmur  to  his 
wife.  He  would  cross  the  room  and  the  hall,  closing  the 
door  of  his  study  softly  behind  him.  For  another  half  hour 
or  so  the  three  persons  in  their  separate  rooms  were  silent, 
the  two  scholars  immersed  in  their  books,  the  third  waiting 
and  thinking.  With  the  sound  of  Gertrude's  light  step  on 
the  stair,  Martha  Gedney  would  finally  raise  her  bent  head 
and  nod  to  herself  slowly.  The  signification  of  a  pythia  who 
sees  the  decree  of  unjust  gods  fulfilled.  Dr.  Gedney  had 
overseen  it,  without  intending  to — twice,  from  the  hall. 

The  ticking  click  of  the  ivory  needles,  knitting  time  to 
eternity,  knitting  his  thought  to  a  close-stitched  web-work  of 
pain.  The  desolating  diligence  of  that  dark  stitching.  .  , 
forever  and  forever.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  you  funny  father — do  pay  some  attention !"  It  was 
Bessie's  voice.  "You're  not  eating  your  baked  apple." 

-Why— oh,  I'm  sorry.    What  is  it,  Bess?" 

"Are  you  going  to  call  on  Mrs.  Ventress,  and  tell  her — 
or  shall  I?  I'll  see  her  to-morrow." 

"I — why  no,  I  hadn't  intended  calling  just  yet.  When 
will  you  see  her?  After  school?" 

"Yes.  I'm  always  passing  her  house  then  and  she's  usu 
ally  in  the  garden.  Shall  I  tell  her  I  can  take  drawing  les 
sons?" 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  Why,  yes,  I  guess  so.  I  must  call  on 
her,  of  course.  I  suppose  so.  Why,  yes,  you  can  arrange  it, 
can't  you,  Bess?" 

His  absent-minded  eyes  hardly  saw  her. 

"And  Uncle  Arthur  didn't  have  any  effect,  did  he?" 

"Arthur?  What?  Oh,  Arthur!  Oh,  that!  Oh,  no,  Ar 
thur  is  rather  impetuous,  you  know.  Gets  these  remarkable 
ideas.  I  didn't  really  pay  attention  to  him  this  afternoon. 


"THE  GIRL  WHO  WAS  BURNED  UP"        69 

He  means  well,  of  course.  He's  very  fond  of  you,  Bess. 
As  long  as  you  learn  drawing.  That's  what  you  want,  isn't 
it?  Well — so  you  really  think  Mrs.  Ventress  can  help  you?" 

"Oh,  you  remarkable  father !  Was  anyone  ever  so  way  off 
in  space.  Why,  you  saw  those  drawings  of  hers.  Don't  you 
remember  ?" 

"Of  course.  Yes,  of  course.  So  I  did.  I  told  Arthur 
about  them,  in  fact.  Didn't  I  ?  Well,  you'll  see  her  tomor 
row.  Fix  it  up." 

He  had  finished  his  coffee  and  rose,  a  rapier-like  figure 
in  black  and  white,  despite  his  scholar's  stoop.  He  smiled 
benignly  in  the  general  direction  of  Bessie,  and  turned  to 
ward  the  living-room. 


CHAPTER  IX:    ORDEAL 

THE  Battell  place  stood  at  the  intersection  of  the  Axter 
Road  and  the  Farm  Road  beyond  Wilder 's.  The  Axter 
Road,  paralleling  Tupton's  Market  Street,  ran  on  past  the 
Battell  place  and  more  recently  built  bungalows  or  more  pre 
tentious  houses  to  the  County  line.  It  was  unmacadamed, 
but  well  kept,  lined  with  tall  and  beautiful  trees.  The  houses 
were  set  back  from  it  with  lawns  and  low  hedges. 

Architecturally  the  Battell  place  had  no  claims  to  beauty. 
It  was  gambrel-roofed  with  three  projecting  second  story 
windows  in  front  that  gave  it  an  appearance  somewhat  snail- 
eyed.  A  north  wing  had  been  tacked  on  which  entirely  de 
stroyed  whatever  original  symmetry  it  may  have  had.  A 
porch  projected  to  the  west,  a  very  pleasant  place  to  spend 
the  morning  sewing,  but  having  nothing  at  all  to  do  with 
mass  values.  It  was  a  wooden  house,  and  therefore  a  myth 
ological  sort  of  edifice  in  times  like  these.  It  had  a  de 
lightful  small  apple-orchard  behind  it,  a  high  box  hedge  all 
around,  pleasant  flower  beds  and  a  broad  white  gravel  path 
leading  up  to  it.  It  had,  I  fear,  a  good  deal  of  unnecessary 
gimcrackery  about  its  trimmings.  It  had  originally — loath 
some  thought — been  painted  maroon.  Now  it  was  white 
with  cream  facings,  and  that  helped  a  little.  It  was  a  stiff 
and  antique  house  with  what  seemed  a  pleasanter  smile  than 
formerly. 

Inside  the  staircase  climbed  too  rigidly  and  turned  too 
abruptly,  but  time  had  given  it  the  tone  of  old  oak  and  its 
carpet,  its  wall  on  the  left,  and  the  rear  wall  on  the  landing 
repeated  the  pleasing  blue  of  the  hall.  A  short  window-seat 
had  been  built  below  the  too-narrow  window  on  the  landing. 
The  effect  was  cramped  but  rather  quaint.  An  atrocious 

70 


ORDEAL  71 

chandelier  had,  however,  been  removed  from  the  lower  hall 
ceiling.  By  squinting  upward  you  could  but  barely  mark  the 
slight  scar  it  had  left  on  the  creamy  surface. 

Mrs.  Ventress  had  done  little  "making  over"  of  the  house, 
hers  being  such  a  short  period  of  occupancy.  But  her  eye 
for  harmonizing  colour  was  excellent  and  she  had  improved 
certain  details. 

To-day  she  stood  near  the  hedge  about  her  front  lawn, 
with  clippers  poised  in  her  hand.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
hedge  and  up  the  white,  hot  Axter  Road,  proceeded  an 
abundant  coloured  woman  with  a  laundry  basket  on  her 
head.  Her  shuffling  footsteps  came  nearer.  She  stopped 
suddenly,  put  down  the  basket,  and,  with  arms  akimbo, 
spoke  over  her  shoulder: 

"C'mon  now,  Jazz!  C'mon,  baby!  Else  ah  gwine  leave 
yuh.  Nobuddy  ain'  gwine  huht  yuh,  Jazz.  C'mon,  baby. 
Don'  ack  so  carntakerous." 

Mrs.  Ventress,  in  her  wide  floppy  hat,  peered  to  see  what 
person  had  evoked  this  deluge  of  ejaculation.  Some  twenty 
yards  back  on  the  white  road  she  espied  the  cause  of  it.  A 
large  black  cat  was  sitting  on  the  crown  of  the  road  washing 
its  paws  with  its  tongue. 

Suddenly  it  looked  up,  licked  its  whiskers  in  a  sly  fashion 
and  then  came  flexuously  bounding  toward  the  coloured 
woman,  tail  held  erect.  Ten  yards  off  it  as  suddenly  stopped 
again  and  resumed  a  sedentary  paw-washing. 

"C'mon  now,  Ja-azz,"  complained  the  laundress  with  a 
rich  intonation,  rolling  the  cat's  name  forth  with  unction. 
"Yuh  do  beat  Hell.  C'mon,  baby.  Ain't  no  one  gwine  huht 
yuh." 

She  was  aware  of  Mrs.  Ventress's  light  laughter  from 
across  the  hedge.  She  faced  it  with  a  sudden  sunrise  grin 
of  domino  teeth.  "Ay-yah,"  she  chuckled  wheezily,  "ain't 
dat  cat  a  caution.  Ah'll  say  she  is."  She  stooped  to  resume 
her  burden,  then  straightened.  "Youse  Miss  Ventress, 
aincha.  Raickon  dis  yoh  landry.  Wait,  ah'll  bring  it  in." 


72  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"That's  a  very  modern  name  you've  got  for  your  cat," 
said  Adela  from  behind  the  hedge. 

"Yas'm.  Cat's  name  Jazzbell,  out  de  Bible.  Ise  Mefdis 
Pisk  mahseff.  Wait  hyah,  I'll  tote  dis  up'n  yoh  po'ch.  Well, 
say,  dat's  some  wash." 

The  heavily  laden  wicker  basket  scraped  on  the  boards 
under  the  wistaria  vine. 

"You're  Dinah  White,  aren't  you?"  Mrs.  Ventress  asked, 
coming  across  the  grass. 

"Yas'm.  Ise  Dinah.  Gotta  lotta  linen  aincha?"  The 
broad  face  beamed.  "You  wan't  in,  time  I  got  it  las'  Mon 
day." 

"No,  I  had  gone  down  street  to  get  one  or  two  things." 

"Yas'm.  Rele  nice  maid  dat  Murree  yoh  got.  Speaks 
funny  donshe?" 

"She's  French,"  said  Adela. 

"Dasso?  French?  Dasso?  Hey  now,  yoh  Jazzbell,  aincha 
comin'  long,  tall?" 

The  cat  so  continually  addressed  lifted  large  expression 
less  topaz  eyes.  Perceiving  nothing  of  particular  interest  in 
the  white  face  and  the  black  face  lifted  above  the  hedge,  it 
relapsed  again  to  licking. 

"You  said  you  were — when  you  were  talking  about  the  cat 
— that  you  were — I  didn't  quite  catch  it,"  said  Adela,  smiling 
quizzically  at  her. 

"Wot  I  say?  'Bout  her  name  out  de  Bible?  Ise  Mefdis 
Pisk.  Pasto  Robutts  circumjexted  dat  name." 

"You're  what?"  asked  Adela,  her  brows  even  more 
wrinkled. 

"Mefdis  Pisk.  Down  tuh  de  Mefdis  Pisk  Chu'ch.  Dat's 
mah  damnation.  Ah  goes  reglah.  Well  now,  Jazz,  you'n 
Ise  bettuh  be  movin'  fo'  home." 

With  an  ample  wave  of  her  arm  in  farewell  and  an  as 
surance  that  she  would  be  "dis  way  t'morrah"  to  collect  her 
basket  with  more  soiled  linen,  she  swayed  with  a  rolling  gait 
out  of  the  front  yard.  She  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  road 
again  with  arms  akimbo,  regarding  the  cat. 


ORDEAL  73 

"My  gawd,  Jazz,"  she  ejaculated  finally,  "yoh  is  a  trile  on 
mah  patience.  You  suah  is.  Wuss  dan  wot  dat  Patch  is  you 
is.  Ah,  clah " 

"Who's  Patch?"  Mrs.  Ventress  exhibited  further  interest. 

"Patch?  Oh,  he's  mah  dawg.  Rele  name's  Patcherotter. 
Some  artis'  tole  me  dat  name.  See,  Patch's  had  a  lotta  dis- 
tempah.  Sump'n  book  'bout  it — same  kinda  case.  All  ah 
know.  He  sho  was  one  quaint  an'  quizzical  man,  dat  Mistah 
Lanyon.  He  paint  hyah  all  one  summah.  Kin  to  de  Co'- 
neliuses.  .  .  .  Well,  Jazz,"  Dinah  suddenly  bawled,  "aincha 
gwine  come.  C'mon,  baby,  Ise  gwine  way  f'm  hyah.  Ise 
gwine  leave  yuh.  Cross  mah  heaht,  ah  is.  Ise  through." 

She  turned  with  an  indignant  waddle.  Her  puffing  form 
diminished  down  the  road.  The  black  cat  finally  bestirred 
itself.  It  ceased  to  polish  its  fur,  looked  around  idly,  got  up 
and  stretched.  Then  suddenly  it  was  away  again  after 
Dinah,  with  light  pantherine  leaps,  and  its  tail  waving  like  a 
plume. 

Adela  turned  back  toward  the  porch  after  an  amused 
assimilation  of  this  episode.  Her  eyes  and  mouth  were  still 
puckered  as  she  bent  over  the  laundry  basket.  Tupton  was 
certainly  proving  a  town  for  character.  She  thought  them 
over  as  she  propped  open  the  screen  door  and  began  lifting 
and  carrying  the  laundered  linen  into  the  cool  and  high- 
ceilinged  hall  that  held  the  scent  of  heliotrope  she  had  picked 
from  one  of  the  flower-beds  that  morning.  Marie  would 
carry  the  linen  upstairs  for  her.  As  she  went  back  and 
forth  she  cast  occasional  glances  into  the  two  large  rooms  on 
either  side  of  the  hall.  In  the  northeast  parlour  there  was 
haircloth,  of  course,  and  that  big  framed  steel-engraving  of 
"The  Stag  at  Bay".  But,  despite  her  own  modern  ideas  of 
interior  decoration,  it  only  seemed  an  added  piquancy.  Be 
sides,  it  was  where  one  "received  callers".  The  southwest 
parlour,  opening  upon  the  dining-room  behind  it  was  the  room 
she  had  chosen  for  actually  living  in.  There  she  had  re 
arranged  the  furniture  and  removed  or  rehung  pictures  to 
excite  Bessie's  admiration.  What  an  odd  little  girl,  Bessie ! 


74  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

She  and  that  Miss  Crome  had  so  far  been  the  only  visitors. 
What  a  contrast ! 

Bessie  had  come  in  impulsively,  yet  shyly,  peering  about 
her  like  a  bird.  The  screen  door  had  squeaked,  and  there 
was  Bessie.  Adela  had  been  discovered  on  her  knees  in  the 
southwest  room  beside  a  large  trunk-suitcase  containing, 
among  other  impedimenta,  an  old  portfolio.  She  looked  up 
and  smiled.  Bessie  smiled.  "Hello !"  said  Bessie.  "I  hope 
you  don't  mind.  I've  come  to  see  you."  Five  minutes  after 
they  were  both  sitting  together  on  the  floor,  turning  over  the 
drawings. 

"But — my ! — why  didn't  you  keep  it  up  ?"  asked  the  dark 
child  after  a  while,  fixing  adoring  eyes  upon  the  older 
woman. 

"Well,"  said  Adela  slowly,  "oh,  that's  a  long  story.  I  got 
turned  off — took  up  something  else.  And  now  I'm  sick  of 

that.  This  seems "  she  held  one  drawing  up  at  arm's 

length  and  cocked  her  head  on  one  side.  "It  really  isn't  so 
bad,  is  it?  You  see,  I  haven't  resurrected  these  for  a  long, 
long  time." 

"Bad?"  said  Bessie.  "I  should  say  not.  Where  did  you 
study?" 

"I  had  a  knack,  as  a  girl.  You'll  let  me  see  some  of  your 
own  things  some  time?" 

"Oh,  but  mine  are  so  awful!    You  won't  want  to." 

"Yes,  but  I  do.  Maybe  I  could  help  you.  I'm  just  going 
to  take  it  up  again  for  fun.  Once — for  a  short  while — I  did 

some  regular  work  at  it "  Mrs.  Ventress's  voice  rather 

trailed  away. 

"Oh,  would  you  ?"  Bessie's  eyes  were  sparkling.  "There's 
no  really  good  course  at  the  Institute.  At  least  I  think — and 
Slade  says  he's  sure  I  could  make  lots  of  money  in  adver 
tising." 

"Oh,  that's  your  ambition?    And  who's  Slade?" 

"My  cousin.  He's  an  editor  in  New  York.  He  really  is 
awfully  clever.  He  writes  poetry.  And  I  do  so  want  to  do 


ORDEAL  75 

something.  But — but  I'm  not  father's  real  daughter,  you 
know.  You  see — you  see,  Gertrude " 

Adela  realised.  She  looked  at  Bessie  long  and  search- 
ingly.  The  child's  eyes  were  cast  down.  There  was  a 
silence. 

Then  Bessie  lifted  her  own  eyes  and  Adela's  turned  aside. 

"You'll  know  it  sooner  or  later,"  said  the  child  to  the 
woman.  "You  know — she  ran  away — Gertrude;  well,  she 
was  really  my  cousin;  her  mother  adopted  me,  afterward. 
I  never  knew  her,  or — or  my  own  parents.  I  was  just  think 
ing,  Father — you  see  I  always  think  of  him  as  my  father — 
says  she  used  to  draw  too.  She  was  valedictorian,  the  year 
she  ran  away.  Then  her  mother  died.  It's — it's  all  made 
father  pretty  sad,"  she  finished  awkwardly. 

Adela  sat  without  replying,  her  head  bent  over  the  draw 
ings.  She  nodded  her  head  in  sympathy.  Bessie  could  not 
see  her  face.  "I  see,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress  softly,  sympa 
thetically.  "I  see,"  she  repeated  in  an  even  lower  tone, 
slightly  shuffling  the  drawings. 

"But  can't  we  draw  together — some  evenings — at  any 
time  that's  convenient  to  you.  I  really  would  love  to  help 
if  there's  any  way  I  can.  I  could  show  you  everything  I 
know  myself.  Of  course,  not  regular  lessons,  and  just  for 

our  amusement "  She  was  not  looking  directly  at  the 

child. 

"Oh,  you  are  an  angel!  I'd  simply  adore  to.  But 
wouldn't  it  be  imposing  ?  Could  we,  next  Monday  evening  ? 
Today's  Friday.  Do  you  suppose  we  could?" 

"Why,  of  course,  if  your  father  doesn't  mind.  Could  you 
have  supper  here  on  Monday  evening?" 

"Oh,  could  we  ?  Oh,  I  really  would  so  love  to.  I'm  sure 
father  won't  mind.  I'll  tell  him  all  about  it,"  stated  Bessie, 
scrambling  up.  "It's  awfully  kind  of  you.  But  you're  sure. 
It  won't  be  imposing.  I  shouldn't  impose." 

"No,"  said  Adela  in  amusement.  "It  certainly  won't  be 
imposing.  And  I'll  make  a  nice  salad  for  us. 


76  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"And  then  we'll  draw.  And  you  must  bring  your  own 
work  to  show  me." 

Bessie  departed  as  one  walking  in  a  trance,  looking  back 
ward  and  smiling.  She  waved  joyfully  from  beyond  the 
high  hedge.  Her  hair  tossed  and  flopped  as  she  started 
briskly  toward  Poplar  Street. 

The  visit  of  Miss  Crome  had  been  otherwise.  Marie  had 
informed  Adela,  who  was  lying  down  one  afternoon,  that 
a  lady  was  in  the  parlour  (the  real  northeast  parlour  it 
proved).  Entering  the  doorway,  Adela  had  felt  Marie  to 
be  mistaken.  This  was  not  so  much  a  lady  as  a  ramrod. 

Miss  Sophia  Crome  sat  stiffly  upon  the  extreme  edge  of 
the  most  uncomfortable  hair-cloth  upholstered  chair,  clutch 
ing  tightly  in  her  right  hand  the  ivory  handle  of  a  faded 
lavendar  sunshade.  Her  nose  seemed  as  sharp  as  an  awl, 
and  her  steel  spectacles,  supported  by  its  bony  ridge,  seemed 
to  glitter  with  something  beyond  the  ordinary  properties  of 
steel  and  glass.  Her  dress  was  stiff  gray  poplin,  high  at 
the  neck  and  long  in  the  sleeves.  It  gave  the  effect  of 
crackling  fiercely  as  she  shifted  in  her  chair.  Her  lisle 
thread  gloves  seemed  permanently  to  clothe  her  discoverably 
bony  hands. 

She  looked  up  with  bright  eyes  and  compact  creased  jaws 
that  reminded  Adela  at  once  of  the  ebony-plastroned  turtle 
with  which  a  passing  black  boy  had  frightened  Marie  the 
day  before.  She  bobbed  at  Adela  a  bonnet  badly  mismated 
to  her  tightly  slicked  and  knotted  iron-gray  hair.  She  sat 
then  with  an  entirely  artificial  smile,  rubbing  the  fingers  of 
her  gloved  hands  together,  fidgeting  in  her  seat,  nodding 
slightly  as  if  to  peculiarly  satisfactory  thoughts  within 
herself. 

Adela  seated  herself  opposite  upon  the  small  sofa,  in  her 
gracefully  lounging  way.  She  smiled  and  attempted  to  be 
affable. 

"We  are  glad  to  greet  a  newcomer "  began  Miss 

Crome.  She  smiled,  and  Adela  immediately  distrusted  her 
entirely.  Miss  Crome  hugged  herself,  bent  forward  a  little, 


ORDEAL  77 

and  began  to  put  questions.  She  nodded  at  the  replies.  She 
nodded  and  looked,  with  down-drawn  upper  lip,  at  the  ceil 
ing.  Immediately  she  discovered  that  Adela,  though  evi 
dently  married,  did  not  mention  her  husband.  She  nodded 
at  that.  She  nodded  at  the  indefinite  reply  to  her  question 
as  to  Adela's  occupation  in  New  York.  To  the  general  rea 
son  for  Adela's  coming  to  Tupton,  rest  and  change  of  scene, 
she  nodded  still  more  briefly  with  eyes  uplifted.  She  went 
on  nodding  like  a  mandarin,  till,  from  initial  irritation,  sup 
pressed  laughter  began  to  rise  and  fill  the  whole  being  of 
her  hostess,  showing  itself  only  in  the  added  sparkle  of  her 
eyes,  which  eyelids  strove  to  veil.  But,  despite  all  subter 
fuge,  once  Miss  Crome  caught  and  understood  that  laugh 
ing  light.  She  nodded  at  the  discovery  till  the  stiff  feather 
of  her  bonnet  quivered  vehemently. 

Thereafter  the  inquisition  ceased.  Local  history  began. 
The  Corneliuses  were  a  most  estimable  family.  Mr.  Cor 
nelius  was  a  victim  of  hay-fever,  a  positive  victim.  He  was 
the  town's  oldest  physician.  Mrs.  Cornelius  was  a  godly 
woman.  She  was  also  President  of  the  Ladies  Aid.  The 
Cornelius  children  were  flighty.  This  evidently,  but  not 
in  the  same  sense  as  charity,  covered  a  multitude  of  sins. 
Dr.  Gedney  was  a  queer  man.  Miss  Crome  could  not  un 
derstand  him.  His  wife  had  been  most  estimable — most 
estimable.  Mr.  Pollock  was  the  brother-in-law.  His  wife 
was  deceased.  This  particular  calamity  was  mentioned  as 
with  implication.  Bessie  and  Gertrude  were  touched  upon. 
Very  sad,  that  case.  The  Brattles  kept  a  good  deal  to  them 
selves.  A  very  old  family.  The  father,  who  held  an  inter 
est  in  the  Meldon  Ironworks,  had  been  brevetted  a  General 
in  the  Civil  War.  In  line  with  the  Brattles,  the  really  old 
residents  of  Tupton  kept  to  themselves.  Stores  had  ruined 
Tupton.  Tupton  had  a  proud  colonial  history. 

The  families  at  the  three  different  farms  did  not  mingle 
much  with  the  people  of  the  town.  Never  had.  The  Say  res 
were  recent.  The  Cripps  were  an  old  and  peculiar  family. 
Mr.  Whinnymuir  was  the  undertaker,  a  god-fearing  man. 


,78  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Mr.  Brixton  was  the  sexton  of  the  Presbyterian  Church. 
He  lived  next  to  Mr.  Whinnymuir  on  Laurel  Street.  Miss 
Crome  supposed  that  Mrs.  Ventress  was  a  Presbyterian. 
No?  How  strange!  Dr.  Amendis  was  the  pastor  of  the 
Presbyterian  Church.  He  was  indeed  the  Lord's  right  hand 
and  had  seven  children.  Mrs.  Ventress  would  doubtless 
take  an  interest  in  the  Ladies  Aid  of  the  Episcopal  Church. 
No?  She  was  not  an  Episcopalian?  Doubtless  she  was  a 
Methodist.  It  would  be  so  strange  to  think  that  she  was  a 
Unitarian!  A  Quaker?  There  were  several  Quakers  in 
Tupton.  Surely  not  a  Catholic? 

Miss  Crome  was  puzzled.  No,  but  Mrs.  Ventress  must 
be  joking.  She  must  have  some  real  religion.  An  Agnos 
tic?  Of  what  denomination  was  that  a  sect?  Of  none? 
Surely — but  that  was  being  the  same  as  an  atheist!  The 
bonnet  nodded  violently.  The  jaws  became  still  more 
creased,  the  lips  still  more  pursed.  The  spectacles  flashed 
in  positive  agitation.  The  ramrod  began  to  quiver.  The 
eyes  sought  far  corners  for  refuge  and  found  none.  Miss 
Crome  was  standing.  Her  head  was  nodding  like  that  of 
one  with  an  uncontrollable  nervous  affection.  She  really 
must  be  going.  She  hoped  Mrs.  Ventress  would  call.  She 
had  come  to  welcome  her  to  Tupton.  Agnostic — but,  dear, 
dear!  Yes,  a  pretty  house.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Battell  were 
such  estimable,  god-fearing  people.  Estimable.  So  estim 
able.  Moving  stiffly  to  the  door,  it  was  most  unfortunate  that 
at  that  very  moment  Miss  Crome  suddenly  came  face  to 
face  with  The  Desecration.  This  was  in  the  shape  of  a 
small  jade  dish  of  Adela's  set  upon  a  pie-crust  table  belong 
ing  to  the  Battells. 

Marie  had  been  requested  to  remove  what  reposed  in  it, 
and  had  forgot.  Miss  Crome's  eyes  stared  unbelievingly 
as  she  glared  at  the  half-smoked  Melachrino  which  had  long 
since  gone  out  and  now  presented  but  a  blackened  stump. 
Miss  Crome's  eyes  rolled  heavenward  and  she  sniffed  an 
imperceptible  sniff.  She  said  nothing,  however.  She 
paused  only  an  instant.  She  smiled  in  a  glaringly  arti- 


ORDEAL  79 

ficial  way  as  she  said  good-bye  at  the  door.  She  did  not 
repeat  her  invitation  to  call.  She  moved  down  the  path  like 
a  rigid  automaton  in  bristling  poplin.  Turning  toward  Pop 
lin  Street  her  acute,  parrot-like  profile  swam  along  the  top 
of  the  hedge,  austere  and  forbidding.  Behind  her  the  clouds 
above  the  Hill  were  piled  grey  for  rain.  The  sunlight  of 
the  day  had  gone.  In  the  porch  Adela  stood  with  finger 
and  thumb  at  her  mouth,  biting  her  lip.  But  when  her  hand 
dropped  she  was  seen  to  be  smiling.  Her  laughter,  the 
moment  that  she  entered  the  house,  surprised  Marie  in  the 
upper  hall.  Marie  was  glad  that  this  strange  change  of 
scene  seemed  to  be  doing  her  mistress  so  much  good. 

Yes,  there  were  characters  in  Tupton.  Indubitably !  Mr. 
Gartner,  for  instance,  at  the  Post  Office,  who  had,  ever  since 
her  arrival,  treated  her  with  special  consideration.  A  funny 
little  embarrassed  man.  Jason  Duffit  who  was  rather  portly, 
almost  incoherent,  and  puffed.  There  was  something  pe 
culiar  about  his  eyes.  She  did  not  quite  like  the  look  in 
them.  The  tradespeople  she  had  found  inquisitive  and  ap 
praising,  but  pleasant  and  obliging  upon  the  whole.  By 
now  the  town  seemed  to  have  accepted  her.  She  had  arrived 
quietly  and  had  been  driven  to  her  new  home  in  the  herdic 
of  Alexis  White.  He  wore  a  faded  and  tattered  porter's 
cap  and  a  permanent  placating  smile.  He  met  all  trains  for 
the  Conestoga  House  and  conveyed  many  old  residents  to 
their  destinations.  A  new  and  extremely  intermittent  trol 
ley  system,  running  down  one  street  only,  hardly  availed 
for  proper  transportation  to  the  station,  though  it  was  some 
times  useful  if  one  wished  to  get,  between  trains,  to  Barrack 
Falls.  Alexis  White  was  as  black  and  shiny  as  a  shoe- 
button.  He  was  the  husband  of  Dinah,  and  they  lived  in  a 
small  house  on  the  road  to  the  Bottom,  with  the  cat  Jezebel, 
the  dog,  Patch,  and  an  odd  assortment  of  piccaninnies. 
Dinah  always  seemed  to  be  vague  about  the  exact  number. 
But  the  Bottom  was  so  full  of  picanninies,  and  they  mingled 
so  together,  that  this  was,  perhaps,  excusable. 


80  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Adela  finished  removing  and  folding  the  laundry  and 
called  to  Marie.  It  was  half-past  three  in  the  afternoon. 

While  the  maid  disposed  of  the  linen,  Mrs.  Ventress  pro 
ceeded  about  the  mahogany  dining-room  table  in  a  leisurely 
manner,  setting  it  for  a  simple  supper.  This  was  the  eve 
ning  of  Bessie's  coming,  to  which  Dr.  Gedney  had  assented. 
She  was  glad  Bessie  was  coming.  She  wondered  certain 
things  about  the  child,  wistfully,  And,  laying  down  a  but- 
terknife  at  Bessie's  place,  the  old  dull  pain  manifested  itself 
again,  the  perpetuated  pain  of  lovely  memory.  If  he  had 
only  lived  .  .  .  Their  home.  She  might  have  been  setting 
the  table  .  .  .  Two  deep  lines  came  between  her  brows. 

That  was  why  there  had  never  been  any  other,  never 
could  be  any  other.  A  strange  thing,  but  true.  All  that  she 
would  have  done  for  him  .  .  .  Oh,  well,  her  temperament 
was  not  to  be  sad.  Suddenly  she  shrugged  and  snapped  her 
fingers.  Then  she  stood  perfectly  quiet,  rigidly  erect.  Her 
face  set.  It  looked  ten  years  older.  They  had  understood, 
they  two.  They  had  understood.  Life.  That  was  all.  Her 

tenseness  relaxed  and  she  went  on  quietly  setting  the  table. 
*  *  * 

Miss  Crome  had  been  a  self-appointed  pursuivant.  Miss 
Crome  considered  herself  the  Eyes  of  Tupton.  Half  of 
Tupton  looked  upon  Miss  Crome  as  a  silly  eccentric  old 
gossip,  and  half  of  it  accepted  her  at  her  own  valuation. 
The  half  that  accepted  her  were  The  Ten.  Not  so  the  hoi 
polloi  whose  number  increased  and  flourished.  This  also 
was  the  half  of  Tupton  that  evinced  only  a  passing  interest 
in  the  coming  of  Adela  Ventress.  They,  in  their  own  par 
lance  had  "sized  her  up"  early.  She  was  a  "good-looker" 
but  quiet,  retiring,  "slow"  (in  some  mysterious  connota 
tion),  and  too  old.  They  put  her  down  immediately  as  a 
"lady".  They  supposed  The  Ten  would  take  her  up.  But 
she  was  not  for  them,  though  they  had  adopted  an  affable 
enough  attitude  toward  her  with  some  covert  admiration, 
on  the  part  of  the  girls,  for  the  way  she  dressed.  And  that 
she  was  "from  New  York"  leant  a  certain  glamour.  They 


ORDEAL  81 

returned  her  courtesy  with  their  own  best  courtesy,  but  she 
was  not  one  of  them.  They  passed  her  by. 

Of  course,  upon  the  part  of  the  whole  town  there  had 
originally  been  much  conjecture  and  gossip  about  the  new 
comer.  If  she  had  appeared  in  an  underslung  French  car, 
with  a  theatrical  rake  to  her  hat,  and  evidences  of  over- 
preparation  in  her  complexion,  the  sprightlier  element  of 
Tupton  would  have  solidly  been  "for  her",  no  matter  how  the 
Old  Residence  Block  might  have  shivered  with  repulsion. 
As  it  was,  Adela  repelled  them  somewhat  by  a  cultivated 
intonation  and  an  aloofness  from  their  festivities.  When 
ever  any  of  the  "newer  element"  passed  her  gate  afoot  or 
in  somewhat  rattling  cars,  she  was  perceived  quietly  weed 
ing,  picking  flowers,  or  reading  upon  the  porch.  Again, 
they  had  several  times  met  her  walking  alone,  a  book  tucked 
under  her  arm,  a  sunshade  resting  against  her  shoulder. 
They  had  decided  that  she  was  partly  a  snob  and  partly 
"queer". 

In  the  stores  of  the  shopping  block  on  Market  Street  you 
would  have  heard  only  vague  expressions  of  goodwill.  If 
Dinah  White  might  speak  for  The  Bottom,  the  impression 
was  that  Adela  was  a  "right  stylish  lady"  and  "she  treats 
yuh  right".  Mrs.  Gartner  represented  another  stratum  of 
local  opinion. 

"Something  funny  about  that  New  York  lady  of  yours,  / 
think,"  she  told  her  husband,  the  possessive  intimation  being 
mere  domestic  malice.  "I  hear  nobody  gets  on  with  her 
very  well.  She's  too  standoffish.  About  the  only  one  seems 
real  friendly  to  her  is  that  young  Bessie  Gedney.  And  an 
older  woman  like  that's  not  good  for  such  a  young  girl. 
They're  together  all  the  time.  That  Doctor  Gedney  don't 
seem  to  have  the  sense  he  was  born  with.  He  never  seems 
to  know  whether  he  has  a  child  or  not.  Those  two  are 
thicker'n  thieves.  Wish  she  was  my  child.  I'd  put  a  stop 
to  it.  It's  got  around  she's  teaching  her  drawing " 

"Who's  teaching  which  ?"  interrupted  Mr.  Gartner,  spear 
ing  a  fried  potato  at  his  supper. 


82  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"That  Mrs.  Ventress  teaching  Bessie  of  course.  A  child 
like  that.  There's  something  wrong  about  it." 

"'Bout  what?  Drawin'  pictures?  Seems  sort  of  foolish 
but  I  can't  say's  I  see  any  harm  to  it,"  returned  Mr.  Gartner. 

"Course  not,"  his  spouse  glared.  "I  mean  such  a  friend 
ship.  And  this  Mrs.  Ventress  never  does  go  to  church 
either.  Ain't  been  seen  in  one.  And  both  the  Presbyterian 
and  'Piscopal  ministers  have  called." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Gartner  liberally.  "There's  some  don't 
hold  by  religion " 

Mrs.  Gartner  bristled. 

"  'Tain't  whether  you  hold  by  it  or  don't  hold  by  it/  she 
pronounced.  "It's  goin'  to  church  and  keepin'  civilised." 

This  way  of  putting  it  seemed  final. 

"Jase  Duffit  was  sayin'  somethin'  to  me  like  that,"  an 
swered  Mr.  Gartner.  "He's  real  shocked  at  some  things 
that  Miss  Crome  told  him  about  Mrs.  Ventress.  B'lieve  she 
found  her  smokin'  a  cigarette.  'We-el,'  I  told  him,  'there's 
no  'countin'  for  tastes.  Guess  it  won't  more'n  give  her  a 
sore  throat." 

"S'pose  you'd  like  to  see  me  smokin'  a  pipe?'  his  wife  in 
terrogated  acidly. 

"We-el,"  returned  Mr.  Gartner,  "at  that,  my  grandmam 
done  it.  Remember  as  a  boy  seein'  her  puff  at  a  clay.  It 
looked  rele  perculiar." 

This  anecdote  had  never  yet  failed  to  plunge  Mrs.  Gart 
ner  into  resentful  and  morose  brooding.  Her  lips  puckered 
tightly.  She  answered  nothing. 

Mr.  Gartner  felt  the  silence.  "Come,  Ag,"  he  remarked 
with  a  lugubrious  smile.  "Come  out  of  it.  I'm  sorry.  I 
didn't  mean  nothin'.  But  I  daresay  that  woman's  all  right," 
he  added.  "You  know  well  as  I  how  talk  gits  around." 

"After  all,"  he  continued  later,  "Jase  Duffitt  rented  her 
the  house  and  the  Battells  was  satisfied.  Jase  even  met  that 
New  York  feller  come  down  to  vouch  f er  her.  An'  I  under 
stand  she  paid  up  in  advance.  But  Jase  is  perculiar  too. 
He's  always  believin'  stories,  ever  since  I've  known  'm.  He's 


ORDEAL  83 

fidgety-like.  And  you  know  after  all  there's  somethin'  sly 
about  Jase,  somethin'  I  never  liked  someway.  Can't  just 
explain  it.  He's  honest  enough,  I  guess.  But  he  listens  too 
much  to  that  Miss  Crome,  an'  her  tongue  wags  at  both  ends. 
Do  you  like  that  woman,  Ag?" 

"Miss  Sophia  Crome  is  a  perfect  lady's  far's  I've  seen," 
said  Mrs.  Gartner,  with  asperity,  rattling  dishes  in  the  sink. 
"She  may  wag  her  tongue,  but  I'm  sure  she  don't  mean  no 
harm  by  it.  She  ain't  standoffish  and  peculiar  anyway. 
She's  rele  neighbourly." 

"Yes,"  ruminated  Mr.  Gartner.  "She's  neighbourly,  as 
you  call  it,  and  then  again  she  ain't.  That  is,  you  might  put 
it,  she's  too  nosey.  She  goes  around  too  much  spreading 
gossip." 

"I  ain't,"  was  Mr.  Gartner's  last  remark  on  that  particular 
subject  that  evening,  "I  ain't  so  keen  f  er  that  Sophia  Crome." 

And,  after  all,  Adela's  relations  with  the  tradespeople  of 
the  town  excited  no  criticism.  She  seemed  to  know  how 
to  run  her  own  house  and  she  paid  her  bills.  True,  there 
was  some  discussion  of  the  occupation  and  whereabouts  of 
her  husband.  She  was  evidently  not  a  widow.  She  was,  as 
evidently,  a  lady.  A  few  ingenuously  inquisitive  souls  who 
had  evinced  an  undue  interest  in  her  married  state  had  re 
tired  baffled,  not  by  ambiguity  or  rudeness,  but  by  a  calm 
and  dexterous  changing  of  the  subject,  with  perfect  good 
nature.  Not  possessing  Mrs.  Ventress's  aplomb  they  with 
drew  to  mull  over  their  own  conjectures.  It  was  believed, 
however,  that  she  and  her  husband  had  separated. 

There  was  much  conjecture  in  certain  quarters.  Two 
people  in  the  town  never  met  now  that  they  did  not  con 
jecture.  Miss  Crome  already  knew  all  that  Jason  Duffitt 
could  supply  as  to  Mrs.  Ventress's  identity.  It  was  not  much, 
save  that  she  had  been  properly  vouched  for  and  had  paid 
for  the  house  in  advance.  On  the  other  hand  Jason  listened 
with  puffy  interest  to  Miss  Crome's  weighing  of  probabili 
ties.  Meanwhile  a  shadow  like  a  dark  dog  lay  asleep  in  the 
June  sunshine  of  Market  Street,  where  daily  the  conversing 


84  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

and  huckstering  populace  passed.  The  shadow  sometimes 
raised  a  vague  ill-shapen  head  to  sniff  at  trivial  things. 
Adela,  as  she  passed  back  and  forth  to  market  or  her  favour 
ite  stores  walked  unaware  of  the  shadow,  that  potential 
guardian  of  the  public  peace  of  mind  that  can  be  tragically 
aroused  to  run  baying  through  the  streets  of  the  most  som 
nolent  of  villages. 

Miss  Crome's  call  had  resulted  in  what,  to  her,  seemed 
dubious  discoveries.  Several  other  incursions  upon  Adela's 
initial  isolation  thickened  the  mystery.  Mrs.  Adolphus 
Frazee,  for  instance,  had  called,  in  the  Frazee's  new  and 
glossy  Packard,  a  magnificent  concession  to  the  spirit  of  the 
times.  Mrs.  Frazee,  sleek,  pursed  and  portly  in  her  blue 
dress  with  white  facings,  her  blue  but  otherwise  indescrib 
able  hat  perking  neatly  from  above  her  eminently  sensible 
coiffure,  had  laid,  with  an  air,  upon  Marie's  extended  tray, 
two  cards  engraved  "Mr.  Adolphus  Frazee",  "Mrs.  Frazee". 
With  the  phantom  presence  of  the  temporarily  absent 
Adolphus  supporting  her,  she  had  swept  into  the  northeast 
parlour. 

Adela  had  come  in  from  the  vegetable  garden.  She  wore 
a  dark  blue  house  dress  with  a  Dutch  neck  and  elbow  sleeves. 
It  gave  her  a  youthful  appearance.  She  had  stopped  to  wash 
her  hands  and  tidy  her  hair,  but  she  still  looked  slightly 
distrait  with  digging. 

"How  do  you  do.  I  am  Mrs.  Frazee,"  said  that  lady,  with 
quite  a  self-satisfied  intonation,  nodding  slightly,  slightly 
rising. 

"Don't  get  up,"  said  Adela  quickly.  "How  do  you  do. 
I've  been  gardening.  You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you." 

They  exchanged  the  ordinary  conversational  openings  for 
several  minutes,  during  which  time  Mrs.  Frazee  noted  that 
Adela's  skirt  was  quite  short  and  that  she  crossed  her  knees. 

By  a  most  unfortunate  turn  of  topic  they  got  on  the  sub 
ject  of  Labour,  and  Mrs.  Ventress  expressed  a  rather  cloudy 
sympathy  with  the  West  Virginian  miners.  Upon  the  sub 
ject  of  Servants  she  seemed,  however,  more  "sound" — ex- 


ORDEAL  85 

cept  that  she  declared  she  had  had  small  trouble  in  securing 
a  cook. 

"Do  you  expect  your  husband  to  join  you  for  the  sum 
mer?"  inquired  Mrs.  Frazee  in  her  impeccable  manner. 

"My  husband!"  Adela  returned,  evidently  quite  at  sea 
for  a  moment.  "Oh !  My  husband !  No.  No,  he  won't  be 
out  here.  Business,  business — in  New  York." 

Mrs.  Frazee  nodded  gravely  and  let  it  be  understood  that 
she  saw.  She  cast  down  her  eyes  as  Adela  slightly  turned 
her  head  away.  Evidently,  considered  Mrs.  Frazee,  viewing 
nevertheless  the  bitten  lip  and  half-closed  eyes  of  her  agi 
tation, — quite  evidently  they  were,  as  people  had  said,  sep 
arated. 

Mrs.  Frazee  said  nothing  more  for  a  moment.  Mrs. 
Ventress  turned  the  subject  to  other  matters.  Mrs.  Vent- 
ress's  lips  were  certainly  very  red.  Mrs.  Frazee  won 
dered .  Mrs.  Ventress  spoke  of  herself,  in  passing,  as 

a  feminist.  Mrs.  Frazee  did  not  exactly  understand,  but 

she  thought  that  Adolphus .  Mrs.  Ventress  certainly 

was  not  so  enthusiastic  about  the  League  of  Nations  as  was 
Rebecca  Stone.  Still,  she  quoted  from  one  of  Senator 
Lodge's  speeches  and  ridiculed  it  in  one  biting  sentence. 

Tht — tht — Mrs.  Frazee  was  sure  that  Adolphus ! 

Adolphus,  however,  did  not  believe  in  Prohibition  either. 
Mrs.  Ventress  had  said  she  saw  no  harm  in  cocktails.  Well, 
of  course,  Mrs.  Frazee  had  known  that  that  was  New  York. 
Mrs.  Ventress  got  on  books  and  mentioned  several  novels 
Mrs.  Frazee  had  not  read.  Mrs.  Frazee  spoke  of  "Pen- 
dennis.''  Mrs.  Ventress  got  Mrs.  Frazee  mixed  up  on  "Pen- 

dennis."  She  had  not  read  it  for  so  long .  Mrs.  Ventress 

begged  her  pardon,  but  wasn't  Rosie  Mackenzie  in  "The 
Newcomes"  instead?  And  didn't  Mrs.  Frazee  like  Captain 
Costigan?  Well,  no,  Mrs.  Frazee  had  never  quite  approved 
Captain  Costigan.  He  was,  well,  rather  outlandish.  Mrs. 
Frazee  quoted  inaccurately  in  illustration.  Mrs.  Ventress 
said  wasn't  that  said,  though,  by  Major  Pendennis?  Mrs. 
Ventress  quoted  smilingly  to  the  point.  Mrs.  Frazee  felt  un- 


86  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

comfortable.  Mrs.  Frazee  must  be  going.  Couldn't  Mrs. 
Ventress  come  to  dinner  next  Monday?  So  delighted  to 
have  her.  She  would  like  her  to  see  her  new  dahlias.  Well, 
good-bye. — yes,  yes,  good-bye.  .  .  . 

Others  from  the  Old  Residence  Block  had  called.  The 
Miss  Babbitts  had  found  her  too  girlish.  "She  is  rather 
pretty,  but  she  seems  too  well  aware  of  it.  She  swears  too. 
She  said  'Damn !'  when  her  dress  caught  in  the  door.  You 
heard  her,  Clara!"  Thus  the  elder  Miss  Babbitt,  whose 
idea  of  extreme  frivolity  was  still  a  game  of  croquet  on 
their  seemly  back  lawn.  The  Miss  Babbitts  were  fifty  and 
fifty-two.  They  lived  in  the  days  of  the  Civil  War.  They 
wore  black  for  parents  dead  thirty  years  ago.  They  re 
sembled  perambulating  vegetables.  They  had  vegetable 
faces.  The  stouter  Miss  Babbitt  looked  like  a  potato,  the 
leaner  like  a  carrot.  Their  entire  lives  had  been  spent  in 
provincial  affluence  and  the  parental  domicile.  Life  was 
something  they  had  heard  about,  but  they  had  not  been  in 
troduced. 

"Hardly  pretty,  I  should  say,"  the  Potato  Miss  Babbitt 
supplied.  "Rather  affected  for  a  woman  of  her  evident 
age.  But  what  seems  rather  sad  is  that  she  has  so  little 
sense  of  humour.  She  did  not  smile  once  at  that  story  of 
Uncle  Harry  and  Mrs.  Mixter's  horse.  That  is  always  the 
test,  to  me." 

Mrs.  Ventress  had  come  to  dinner  at  Mrs.  Frazee's  in 
what  seemed  a  very  sheer  black  net.  She  seemed  entirely 
unconscious  of  her  white  neck  and  arms.  Mrs.  Frazee  could 
not  be  unconscious  of  them.  It  was  apparent  that  neither 
General  Brattle  nor  young  Harry  Persons  were  uncon 
scious.  It  was  grave  that  Adolphus  seemed  so  Conscious. 
It  was  unnecessary  that  Mrs.  Ventress  should  have  dressed 
in  that  manner. 

It  went  quite  smoothly  for  a  while.  Mrs.  Ventress  was 
perhaps  too  much  engaged  in  conversation  with  the  men  on 
her  right  and  left.  Conversation  should  be  more  general. 
However,  Mr.  Mixter  launched  forth  on  the  subject  of 


ORDEAL  87 

women.  It  was  as  certain  as  fate.  Mrs.  Ventress  spiritedly 
did  not  concur.  She  was  being  satiric.  She  was  making  Mr. 
Mixter  listen.  The  whole  table  was  listening. 

Mr.  Jeremiah  Mixter  was  answering.  He  was  annoyed. 
Adolphus  was  plunging  in.  Adolphus  always  plunged  so. 
Mrs.  Ventress  was  a  bright  defiance.  Rebecca  Stone,  though 
she  could  not  get  a  word  in,  was  looking  at  Mrs.  Ventress 
with  a  new  interest,  from  the  opposite  side  of  the  table.  Mrs. 
Ventress  had  shrugged  very  slightly  and  had  resumed  eating 
her  fish.  She  was  talking  to  young  Harry  Persons  on  her 
left. 

General  Brattle  and  Dr.  John  Cornelius  had  joined  in 
anathematising  the  world-state  idea.  Mrs.  Ventress  was 
still  talking  to  Harry  Persons,  about  the  theatre.  The  con 
versation  anent  the  world-state  crackled  generally.  Mrs. 
Ventress  had  ventured  the  opinion  that  an  international 
court  to  adjudicate  the  claims  of  all  nations,  might,  in  spite 
of  present  disappointments,  lie  among  the  possibilities  of 
future  civilisation.  Dr.  John  was  sonorously  quoting  Sena 
tor  Borah.  Mrs.  Ventress  had  said  something  flippant  about 
Senator  Borah.  Rebecca  Stone  laughed  at  it,  and  Mrs. 
Ventress  looked  across  the  table,  smiling  at  her.  Finally, 
it  seemed  that  she  was  somehow  teasing  General  Brattle 
about  Preparedness.  General  Brattle  was  gobbling  like  a 
bubblyjock.  He  was  being  very  crushing,  saying,  "But  my 
dear  young  lady !"  Mrs.  Ventress  was  being  humour 
ous  about  her  age.  Mrs.  Frazee  sighed  heavily.  This  would 
never  do.  Really,  really!  She  signalled  her  husband  that 
they  were  to  rise. 

Harry  Persons  said  afterward  that  Mrs.  Ventress  was 
an  extraordinarily  interesting  woman.  General  Brattle  had, 
however,  departed  without  saying  good-night  to  her. 
Adolphus  was  irritated.  Jeremiah  Mixter  seemed  for  once 
to  have  nothing  to  say.  Next  day  the  feminine  element, 
meeting  at  tea  at  the  Miss  Babbitts'  expressed  in  various 
feminine  fashion  their  distaste.  There  was  something  un 
womanly  ;  there  was  a  hard  veneer,  a  sophistication ;  she  had 


88  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

told  Mr.  Burley  a  story,  oh,  no,  not  exactly  improper,  but 
just  a  trifle  too  witty.  She  was  a  pretty  little  thing,  but 
Randolph  Utterson  had  used  the  right  word,  "opinionated" ; 
she  was  faded  looking  and  General  Brattle,  even  though  so 
Conscious,  had  said  she  was  tiresome ;  she  moved  in  quite — 
oh,  quite — a  different  world,  the  Carrotish  Miss  Babbitt  was 
sure.  Only  Rebecca  Stone,  coming  in  late,  with  her  air  of 
eye-glassed  independence,  absent-mindedly  asked  them  all 
what  on  earth  they  were  all  talking  about  and  pronounced 
Mrs.  Ventress  "an  acquisition".  She,  Rebecca,  intended  go 
ing  to  see  her  to-morrow.  She,  Mrs.  Ventress,  had  read 
"Candide". 

No  one  else  present  had  read  "Candide".  And  anyway 
that  was  exactly  like  Rebecca.  There  was  a  feeling  that 
she  would  not  be  at  all  good  for  Rebecca.  She  would  "en 
courage"  her. 

Mrs.  Ventress  called  upon  Mrs.  Frazee  when  Mrs.  Fra- 
zee  was  out.  She  did  not  leave  a  card.  That  seemed,  well — 
too  casual.  Mrs.  Ventress  was  passing  Jeremiah  Mixter 
on  the  street,  with  the  Gedney  girl,  and  did  not  see  him. 
Mrs.  Ventress  and  the  Gedney  girl  seemed  too  intimate. 
Rebecca  Stone  had  borrowed  several  books  from  Mrs.  Vent 
ress.  They  were  French  novels.  It  was  no  secret  now  that 
Mrs.  Ventress  smoked  cigarettes.  Caroline  Utterson  also 
had  heard  her  swear  again.  She  did  not  go  to  church.  She 
rarely  crossed  Market  Street.  Rebecca  Stone  reported  that 
Mrs.  Ventress  was  now  reading  Nietzche.  Harry  Persons 
had  met  Mrs.  Ventress  by  accident  one  afternoon — or  was 
it? — and  had  walked  down  Sycamore  Street  with  her.  Mrs. 
Harry  Persons  declared  herself  not  at  all  worried,  but  both 
the  Miss  Babbitts  felt  outraged.  Poor  little  Ethel ! 

There  is  no  predicting  the  silliness  of  small  communities — 
and  then,  of  course,  there  are  innumerable  instances  large 
and  small  beside  that  of  Giordano  Bruno  who  was  burned 
at  the  stake  because  he  felt  that  Aristotle  was,  perhaps,  too 
provincially  hasty  in  believing  the  earth  to  be  the  centre  of 
the  universe. 


ORDEAL  89 

Adela  took  many  long  walks  by  herself  past  the  farms 
and  through  the  fields  near  Tupton.  Unwittingly  by  so 
doing  she  broke  unwritten  law  for  one  of  her  caste.  She 
was  seen  climbing  over  a  rail  fence.  She  was  even,  once, — * 
and  this  was  regarded  as  a  fiery  portent — overlooked  from 
the  passing  car  of  Dr.  John  Cornelius,  wading  in  the  shal 
lows  of  the  Passamint  near  the  bridge  beyond  the  Cripps 
farm.  True,  the  place  chosen  was  secluded.  If  Dr.  Cor 
nelius  had  not  had  carburetor  trouble  at  that  point .  A 

book  lay  open  on  the  bank,  beside  a  pair  of  small  discarded 
Oxfords.  But  really !  A  married  woman !  By  the  way,  you 
know,  she  never  mentions  her  husband!  No,  Mrs.  Frazee 
is  absolutely  certain  he  is  not  dead.  Not  dead — but  wading ! 

There  is  some  wildness there  is  something .  It  was 

agreed  that  There  Was  Something. 

Meanwhile,  except  for  her  roaming  and  reading,  (the 
scandalous  incident  of  the  wading  was  the  only  occasion  of 
its  kind,  fortunately)  the  subject  of  all  these  almost  daily 
discussions  continued  to  conduct  her  household  and  her  daily 
affairs  in  a  competent,  unobtrusive  manner.  At  least  she 
had  sealed  to  her  Dinah  White.  At  least  the  grocery  boy 
from  Ratcliffe's  confided  to  her  the  true  facts  about  his 
collection  of  snapping-turtles  and  his  mastery  of  an  out- 
drop.  At  least  Bessie  Gedney  continued  to  find  her  a  won 
derful  exemplar  in  the  art  of  making  things  look  like  some 
thing  in  a  few  lines.  At  least  the  tradespeople  with  whom 
she  had  to  do  began  to  look  forward  to  her  pleasant  manner 
and  her  smile  and  her  pretty  clothes  as  she  entered  their 
stores  from  the  morning  glare  of  Market  Street. 

As  to  Tupton  society,  it  is  indubitable  that  Adela's  des 
tiny  was  to  fall  between  two  stools.  While  the  all-powerful 
Ten  certainly  accepted  her  as  a  "lady",  they  soon  came  to 
look  upon  her  askance.  She  seemed  to  them  a  potential  in 
cendiary.  She  puzzled  and  irritated  them  by  possession  of 
too  much  general  information.  She  had  an  exasperating 
way  of  questioning  all  statements  made  ex  cathedra.  And 
that  was  the  prerogative,  unimpeached  heretofore,  of  their 


90  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

accepted  leaders.  That  her  manner  in  argument  was  charm 
ingly  well-bred  made  it  particularly  hard  to  bear.  Their 
pet  prejudices  seemed  to  cause  her  more  quiet  amusement 
than  discomfiture.  She  had  now  withdrawn  gracefully  into 
her  own  silence.  She  bowed  agreeably  to  all  of  them  upon 
the  street,  but  had  quietly  manoeuvred  herself  into  the  posi 
tion  of  remaining  quite  outside  their  influence.  Finally,  she 
had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin  of  momentarily  shak 
ing  The  Ten's  confidence  in  themselves.  Highly  Abderitan ! 
The  natives  of  that  section  of  Thrace  were  famed  of  old,  as 
you  know,  for  a  certain  lack  of  intelligence.  They  could 
not  forgive  her,  so  they  tried  to  forget  her.  And  as  the 
Other  Half  Rome  had  already  adopted  that  attitude,  for 
other  reasons,  Adela  found  herself  singularly  alone  in  Tup- 
ton,  so  far  as  local  society  was  concerned.  And  this  suited 
her  exactly.  It  was  deeply  restful. 


CHAPTER  X:    UNCLE  ARTHUR  SYMPATHIZES 
WITH  XERXES 

IN  the  rear  of  Uncle  Arthur's  big  back-yard  was  a  chicken- 
house  about  fourteen  by  twenty-four  with  shrubbery 
against  the  fence  to  the  north  of  it  and  a  wired  run  extending 
parallel  to  its  westward  facing  front.  Its  ridgepole  was 
about  seven  feet  from  the  ground,  its  roof  covered  with  tar- 
paper.  In  the  run  the  game  chickens  strutted  and  pecked. 
The  black-breasted  ones  with  their  greyish-brown,  salmon- 
breasted  hens;  the  red  pyle  cocks  with  orange  hackle  and 
saddle,  and  their  white  hens;  the  orange-legged  Cornish 
Indians  in  bright  brown  and  glossy  green.  They  made  a 
fine  showing. 

"And  what's  the  jet  black  one?"  asked  Bessie. 

"Black  Sumatra.  You  don't  see  so  many  round  here. 
There's  the  hen  too — good  layer  and  a  good  mother.  I'll 
bet  that's  a  seven-pound  hen.  The  blacks  have  heavier  feath 
ers.  But  that  red  Game's  the  standard  fowl.  Those  Indian 
Games  are  the  heaviest.  There's  a  hen  weighs  eight  and  a 
half.  I  cured  that  brown  red  Game  hen,  that  dark  one  with 
the  lemon  hackle — cured  her  of  the  roup.  You  can't  if  it's 
advanced.  That  one  over  there,  with  the  lemon  colour 
lacing." 

"How  did  you?" 

"That !"  Uncle  Arthur  turned  around  and  pointed  to  the 
cellar-door  near  which  stood  a  red-banded  silverly  shining 
kerosene  oil  can. 

"Or  rather  I  filled  a  sewing-machine  can  from  it  and  got 
the  oil  into  her  nose  and  beak.  Then  of  course  I  put  some 
condition  powder  into  her  mash  and  aconite  in  her  drinking 
water.  Looks  pretty  now,  don't  she?" 

Bessie  nodded. 

91 


92  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Uncle  Arthur  was  meditatively  full  of  his  subject  and 
went  on  spasmodically. 

"Of  course  these  aren't  what  they  call  'pit'  fowl.  They're 
exhibition  birds.  Remember  when  I  showed  them  at  the 
Meldon  County  Fair  ?  Long  leg  and  neck's  what  you  want. 
What  you  must  have.  Short-feathered  saddle.  Short 
hackle.  Pit  fowl  have  lots  of  hackle.  Notice  these  don't. 
There's  a  duck-wing.  Ain't  that  a  beauty?" 

He  pointed  out  a  golden  male  with  straw-coloured  neck 
and  saddle  and  a  shining  coppery  back.  A  blue-black  bar 
striped  each  wing. 

"Where's  Ptolemy?"  asked  Bessie,  peering. 

"The  one  your  father  named?  He's  that  Sumatra — with 
the  long  tail.  The  one  lifting  his  feet  over  there.  Got  three 
spurs  on  his  leg — see?" 

"My,  you  know  a  lot  about  them,  Uncle  Arthur !" 

"Oh,  no.  Very  little.  A  hobby  of  mine.  Old  man  must 
have  his  hobby,  you  know.  Want  to  see  inside?" 

He  entered  the  small  door  in  the  west  end  and  stood  in 
the  four-foot  alleyway  on  the  north  side  of  the  building. 
Bessie  peered  around  at  the  nest-boxes,  the  platform-raised 
roosts  and  the  dust-box  in  the  corner.  It  was  smelly.  The 
feed-trough  ran  low  near  the  floor  in  front  and  beyond  her. 
There  was  a  water-dish  at  the  end  of  the  feed-trough.  The 
floor  was  boarded. 

"What's  that  box  for?" 

"Dust.  Fowls  get  verminous  in  late  fall  and  winter  if 
they  can't  get  a  dust-bath.  Get  it  in  the  summer — but  in 
cold  weather  they're  so  cooped  up.  I'll  fill  that  from  the 
Axter  Road.  Good  fine  dust  there." 

They  returned  outside  and  visited  the  several  brood  coops 
set  in  another  wired  inclosure.  The  flaps  of  the  coops  were 
up  and  yellow  and  brown  puffballs  cheeped  up  and  down 
behind  a  netting  to  the  spasmodic  clucking  of  their  alert 
mothers.  Bessie  indulged  in  many  pointings,  adorations, 
exclamations.  Uncle  Arthur  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  went 
over  to  examine  a  ripening  pear-tree  for  scale. 


UNCLE  ARTHUR  SYMPATHIZES  93 

"So  Slack's  coming  for  the  Fourth/'  he  remarked  finally, 
when  he  had  satisfied  himself  that  the  spray-pump  was  not 
needed  just  yet. 

Bessie  turned  and  came  over  to  him. 

"He'll  get  here  to-morrow  night.  Won't  it  be  nice  to 
see  him?" 

"Right  you  are,  Bess.  It  will  be  nice.  How  long  is  he 
going  to  stay?" 

"Just  till  Monday.  Over  the  Fourth.  But  he's  promised" 
Bessie  emphasized,  "to  come  later  for  his  vacation  too. 
Don't  you  like  Slade,  Uncle  Arthur  ?  I  think  he's  fine,  don't 
you?"' 

Her  relative  cast  a  sidelong  quizzical  glance  at  her,  re 
moved  his  grey  cap  and  scratched  the  top  of  his  head.  His 
astigmatic  eye  twinkled  like  a  spark.  "Yes,"  he  nodded 
judgmatically.  "I  like  Slade.  Like  him  all  right.  He's  a 
nice  boy.  Don't  understand  some  of  his  ideas.  That  stuff 
he  writes  is  way  over  my  head.  But  I  like  Slade.  He's  got 
a  lot  to  learn,  but  he  knows  it.  His  mother  used  to 
worry  about  him,  but  he  seems  doing  well  in  this  magazine 
work.  Haven't  seen  him,  let's  see,  going  on  two  years.  He's 
got  good  manners,  that  boy.  He  may  amount  to  something." 

"But  he  isn't  a  boy,  Uncle  Arthur!  Why  he's  really 
assistant  editor  of  the  Colosseum.  And  there's  that  book 
of  his  poetry.  He  didn't  have  to  pay  for  it  being  published, 
you  know.  They " 

"Poetry — mm !"  said  Uncle  Arthur,  rolling  his  astigmatic 
eye.  "Well,  you  know,  Bess,  my  taste  runs  to  chickens.  He 
didn't  have  to  pay  for  it — no.  But  neither  did  it  pay  him. 
Fell  pretty  flat.  He  told  me  so  himself.  Well,  it's  his 
hobby — only  it  seems  to  me  hobbies  are  more  in  line  for  us 
old  fellows.  Still,  he's  done  well  for  himself." 

"But  Uncle  Arthur — you  are — er — preposterous.  Slade's 
a  real  writer.  He  has  the  gift.  Father  thinks  so.  Don't 
you  see  that  what  he  writes  is  the  really  important  thing — 
not  the  magazine  work?  Don't  you  see  that,  you  funny 
old  Uncle  Arthur?" 


94  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

In  her  Bessieish  way  she  was  doing  what  looked  like  a 
few  minuet  steps  in  front  of  him.  Her  black  hair  was  in  a 
tangle  about  her  face  and  her  black  eyes  were  sparkling. 
She  tossed  her  hair  back  from  her  eyes  with  the  aid  of  both 
hands,  and  then  stood  gracefully  slouching  with  a  hand  on 
either  hip,  her  head  slightly  cocked  on  one  side. 

Uncle  Arthur  was  looking  away  over  the  top  of  the  house. 

"Eh !  Oh,  all  right,  Bess.  Well,  what's  he  going  to  bring 
with  him?  Fire-crackers?" 

"Fire-crackers !"  Bessie's  lip  curled  with  pleasing  scorn. 
"Though  of  course  we'll  have  some  fireworks  in  the  orchard 
that  night.  Uncle  Arthur,  you  know  we'll  have  fireworks 
in  the  orchard?"  she  finished  pleadingly,  with  a  strangely 
childish  reversal  of  the  semi-adult  tone  with  which  she  had 
begun. 

"Oh,  absolutely,  Bess, — we'll  have  fireworks,"  Uncle  Ar 
thur  promised,  his  enormous  girth  slightly  agitated  by  inner 
laughter.  "Slade'll  make  a  fizzle  of  the  pinwheels  again, 
though.  Remember  two  years  ago?" 

"He  won't!"  she  answered  with  spirit.  "You  know  he 
won't.  You're  teasing.  And  of  course  I  suppose  Adela 
will  be  invited,"  she  added  in  a  very  dignified  tone. 

"Adela?"  Uncle  Arthur  immediately  frowned  suspicion. 
"Adela  who?" 

"Mrs.  Ventress.  She's  my  best  friend  now  in  Tupton 
and  she's  the  most  adorable  person  and  you  know  she  has 
been  teaching  me  drawing  and  she  would  simply  love  the 
fireworks  I'm  sure  and  she  gets  so  little  fun." 

The  sentence  streamed  forth  with  a  total  lack  of  punc 
tuation.  It  was  possessed  of  cumulative  earnestness. 

Uncle  Arthur's  frown  had  deepened.  He  bit  his  lip.  The 
grey  cap  had  been  replaced,  much  over  his  nose.  He  seemed 
extremely  interested  in  contemplating  the  ridgepole  of  his 
house  from  several  angles.  His  colour  heightened  and  a 
certain  stubborn  oaken  quality  seemed  to  creep  into  the  bag- 
giness  of  his  clothes. 

"Look  here,  Bess,  I  think  nothing  of  it!"  he  said.    "I— 


UNCLE  ARTHUR  SYMPATHIZES  95 

er — I've  been  meaning  to  speak  to  you  for  some  time  about 

that.  I — er — you  know  I  don't  like — I  mean  to  say " 

his  voice  got  thicker,  preluding,  as  Bessie  well  knew,  some 
sort  of  outburst.  Uncle  Arthur  could  never  express  his 
deepest  emotions.  His  endeavours  at  tact  always  culmi 
nated  in  some  explosive  phrase  which  hardly  clarified  the 
situation. 

"Oh,  Goliath,"  he  suddenly  exclaimed.  "It's— the  trouble 
is — well,  what  do  any  of  us  know  about  that  woman,  Bess. 
I've  been  seriously  worried.  About  you.  You  know  Charley 
— oh  Mammonites ! — you  know  your  father.  It  seems  ut 
terly  inexcusable  of  him.  Why  did  he  do  it?  Oh,  great 
leaping  trout!  I  am  inclined  utterly  to  give  it  up!" 

His  agitation  was  apparent  in  the  irascible  bumbling  of 
his  syllables  and  the  vast  shrugging  of  his  shoulders.  He 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  with  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

Bessie  had  expected  something  of  the  kind.  She  stood 
slowly  scraping  the  toe  of  one  low  tan  shoe  into  the  dirt 
around  the  root  of  an  apple  tree.  Her  hair  flopped  over  her 
eyes.  She  said  nothing. 

Uncle  Arthur  quickened  the  pace  of  his  short  walking  to 
and  fro.  He  glanced  at  her  ever  and  anon  worriedly  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  better  eye.  He  crammed  his  cap  more 
fiercely  upon  his  head.  He  bit  upon  his  pipe. 

Suddenly  Bessie  raised  her  head,  shook  back  her  hair 
and  laughed.  He  halted  with  pipe  drooping  from  his  lip, 
in  front  of  her. 

"Oh,  you  great  goose,"  she  said  in  the  occasional  ageless 
feminine  tone  that  always  checkmated  him.  "What  is  the 
matter?  As  if  she  could  hurt  me!" 

"Well,  it  is  that !"  said  her  huge  relative  in  a  tone  singu 
larly  boyish  and  contrite  for  all  his  years.  But  he  reverted 
almost  immediately  to  the  more  pompous. 

"It's  this,  Bess.  If  Charley  won't  see  it  properly,  why  I 
do.  There's  talk  about  it  already  in  the  town.  It  isn't  good 
for  you  to  see  so  much  of  a  so  much  older  woman  none  of 
us  know  hardly  at  all.  It  isn't  good  for  any  young  girl, 


96  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

these  sudden  great  intimacies  with  older  women — least  of 
all  when  no  one  knows  anything  about  her.  Now  she  may 
be  all  right — she  may  be  all  right — (though  Uncle  Arthur's 
eyes  denied  the  possibility  of  it) — I'm  not  saying  she  isn't," 
he  hastened  on  as  he  saw  Bessie  opening  her  mouth  to  reply. 
"I  ain't  saying  she  isn't — she  may  be  all  right — "  (he  was 
obviously  stalling  for  another  flow  of  ideas),  "she  may  be, 
but  the  fact  is  your  father  and  I  are  your  guardians  and  we 
can't  see  you  running  into  any  harm — and — oh,  Charley 
wouldn't  see  the  side  of  a  barn  until  he  ran  into  it — so  I 

have  to  take  it  upon  myself,  to  take  it  upon  myself Bess, 

you  simply  oughtn't  to  see  any  more  of  that  woman.  It's 
bad  for  you,  and  you  must  know  it  yourself,  and  the  whole 
town  is  talking!" 

He  ended  with  great  vehemence,  avoided  his  niece's  di 
lating  eyes  and,  removing  his  jammed  cap  with  some  diffi 
culty,  again  applied  hands  to  his  hair,  which  now  stood  up 
in  every  direction  across  his  pate  like  the  ill-arranged  halo 
of  some  wild  and  preposterous  saint. 

Bessie's  eyes  grew  wider  and  wider  and  her  mouth  opened 
and  shut.  She  began  to  teeter  toe  and  heel  and  swing  her 
arms  a  little.  A  bon  chat  bon  rat! 

"Uncle  Arthur,"  she  said  quite  primly,  "while  appreciat 
ing  your — your  solicitation — but  that's  not  the  word  I  mean, 
I  must  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Ventress  is  one  of  the  finest 
women  I  have  ever  met.  And  furthermore  (how  well  that 
word  rolled  off  the  tongue)  and  furrrthermore,"  said  Bessie 
impressively,  "I  consider  her  in  every  way  a  perfectly  fit 
companion  for  me.  And  furrrthermore — after  that — (Her 
head  was  back  and  her  mouth  open  to  draw  breath  for  a 
crushing  climax).  "Furthermore,  after  that,"  she  repeated, 
"if  you  think  I  care  what  the  sneaky  gossips  of  this  town 
like  Miss  Crome  say  about  my  most  utterly  and  extremely 
nice  Adela,  why  I  can  tell  you  I  simply  don't  care  what  that 
Miss  Crome  or  any  other  slithery  gossip  in  this  town  says, 
and  it  isn't  true  anyway — and  if  you  don't  let  her  come  to 


UNCLE  ARTHUR  SYMPATHIZES  97 

the  fireworks,  I  mean  Adela,  which  I  know  you  wouldn't 
really  not  do,  you  will  most  certainly  break  my  heart." 

It  was  not  so  arresting  a  group  of  closing  periods  as  she 
had  planned.  It  did  not  satisfy  her.  But  she  delivered  it 
in  a  most  dignified  manner.  Any  ambiguity  could  not  be 
mistaken  by  Uncle  Arthur. 

He  remained  planted  before  her  like  a  solid  oak.  But 
then  he  began  to  walk  up  and  down  again.  He  blew  his 
nose  violently.  The  scar  on  his  left  cheek  burned.  He  put 
on  an  evidently  artificial  smile,  as  convincing  to  Bessie  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  attached  to  his  chin  a  false  purple  beard. 
He  waved  large  hands. 

"Now,  Bess,"  he  said,  "you  know  perfectly  well  I  in 
tended  no  insult  to  your  friend.  I — she  may  be  all  right, 
perfectly  all  right.  I  don't  really  think,  though,  that  we 
should  invite  her  to  the  fireworks.  And  then  do  think  of 
Slade  too,  you  know.  (This  was  deep.)  He  won't  want 
to  have  strangers  about  I'm  sure, — just  a  family  party.  And 
we'll  have  such  a  pleasant  time.  Don't  spoil  it.  It — "  sud 
denly  the  explosiveness  returned.  The  mask  dropped.  The 
incoherently  incensed  small-boy  face  purpled.  "It  ain't  fair, 
Bess.  Who  is  this  woman,  anyhow?  Great  Hippopotami, 
who  is  she?  I'd  like  to  know.  Oh,  holy  dancing  Zebra,  it 
does  seem  too  bad,  I  must  say " 

"Uncle  Arthur,"  his  niece  answered,  standing  straight  and 
speaking  gravely,  "I  do  believe  you're  jealous." 

"Jealous!  Great  painted  Snails!  Jealous?  Of  what? 
Of  that  woman?  Bess,  can't  you  see  that  you  really  ought 
not  to  go  around  there  so  much?  You  ought  not  to,^I 
should  think,  (aggrievedly)  if  only  that  it  worries  your  poor 
old  uncle.  I  think  absolutely  nothing  of  it!" 

Bessie  stamped  her  small  foot.  "Stop  it,  Arthur.  (It 
had  long  been  her  custom  to  call  him  Arthur  when  she  was 
angry  with  him.)  I  won't  have  you  saying  'this  woman', 
'this  woman',  'this  woman'.  It's  too  silly.  And  you  seem 

to  think  me "  the  voice  melted  all  at  once  into  a  tone  of 

the  most  intense  lassitude.  "Oh,  Arthur,  you  seem  to  think 


98  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

me  such  a  child.  I'm  not  a  child  any  more,  I'm  not,  I'm  not. 
And  you  know  it!  You  know  perfectly  well  I  can  take 
care  of  myself.  You  know  perfectly  well  I'm  fond  of  you 
too,  and  still  at  the  same  time  that  I  won't  be  bossed.  Father 
doesn't  boss  me " 

(At  this  point  the  enormous  relative  raised  hands,  but 
not  in  piety,  to  heaven,  and  ejaculated  a  smothered  "Char 
ley!")  "I  won't  be.  I  won't  be.  Now  you  know  you'll  be 
polite  and  ask  my  dear,  my  adored,  my  beloved  Adela  to 
the  fireworks,  and  say  no  more  about  it!" 

"I  will  if  I  don't  see  her I  will  if  I  don't  see  her " 

interrupted  Uncle  Arthur  with  wide  waving  of  his  hands. 
"Oh,  well,  have  it  your  own  way!  But  I  refuse  to  be  a 
party  to  it.  I  utterly  refuse  to  be  a  party  to  it.  You  may 
bring  her  if  you  like,  and  I  will  sit  indoors  among  all  the 
vicious  mosquitoes  and  suffer  from  my  hay  fever.  What 
does  it  matter.  Infernal  hinges  of  Erebus,  what  does  it 
matter!  You  always  have  your  own  way.  I  tell  you  it  is 
stark  peril.  But  who  am  I  then.  Only  your  uncle.  Why 
should  I  be  listened  to?  And  I  had  looked  forward  so  to 
seeing  Slade.  Oh,  well,  I  sympathize  with  Xerxes !  Whips 
and  manacles !  It  is  all  too  horrible !" 

He  waved  his  hands  and  heaved  his  girth  in  a  Gargantaun 
gesture  of  abandonment  and  stumped  off  toward  the  house, 
his  grey  cap  in  his  hand.  Bessie  recognised  his  complete 
capitulation  in  the  reference  to  Xerxes.  Uncle  Arthur  al 
ways  fell  back  upon  the  famous  Persian's  passion  whenever 
the  last  remnants  of  his  inexpressiveness  utterly  failed.  His 
mortal  despair  in  any  given  situation  was  inseparably  con 
nected  in  his  mind  with  that  indignant  monarch  striving 
to  chasten  the  Hellespont.  But  who  shall  bridle  the  sea? 

The  sixteen-year-old  child  stood  staring  after  him  with 
her  head  on  one  side.  Her  inner  being  was  far  more  de 
lighted  than  depressed.  She  even  did  several  more  minuet 
steps.  She  then  started  after  him,  in  a  half-skipping  run, 
had  caught  his  arm  before  he  had  reached  the  steps  of  the 


UNCLE  ARTHUR  SYMPATHIZES  99 

side-porch,  and  five  minutes  later  they  were  bending  together 
over  a  case  of  stuffed  birds  in  the  parlour,  with  the  utmost 
affection  and  mutual  interest.  Mrs.  Ventress  was  not  al 
luded  to  again  that  afternoon. 


CHAPTER  XI:    HELEN  AND  THE   CHINA 
ANIMALS 


nOP—  pop-pop—  BANG  !—  pop—  pop-pop-pop  ! 
JL  The  heavy  breather  on  the  bed  flung  one  brown  arm 
across  his  chest.  His  body  looked  shapeless  under  the 
wrinkled  sheet,  hunched  up  like  a  bundle.  His  open  eyes 
were  rested  by  the  white  ceiling,  but  it  was  smotheringly 
warm.  With  an  effort  of  will  he  turned  on  his  side  and 
picked  up  his  watch  from  the  chair. 

6:30. 

He  sat  up,  his  light  hair  in  great  disorder,  his  blue  eyes 
wild  and  staring.  They  calmed  as  he  regarded  the  green 
bureau,  the  lighter  apple-green  of  the  wall-paper,  his  clothes 
in  a  heterogeneous  huddle  upon  a  chair,  his  collar  and 
necktie  in  disorder  upon  the  bureau.  The  Glorious  Fourth! 

Pop  —  pop-pop  -  Bang  !  Bang  —  pop  -  pop. 

Slade's  lean  brown  hands  went  round  his  knees.  His 
chin  lay  for  a  moment  upon  them.  He  yawned  enormously. 

Too  early  for  breakfast.  Breakfast  was  at  eight.  When 
had  he  better  take  his  bath?  Did  Uncle  Charles  get  up 
early  ? 

He  scrambled  from  bed  and  padded  to  the  door,  opened 
it  a  crack,  listened.  The  bathroom  was  across  the  hall.  A 
thin  mosquitoish  sound  came  from  Dr.  Gedney's  room  be 
yond  it.  Otherwise  the  house  was  quite  quiet.  Should  he 
run  his  bath  ? 

Too  early.  Might  disturb  them.  He  went  back  and  sat 
on  his  bed,  scratching  his  head. 

Rafe's  voice,  the  voice  of  memory,  sang  clearly  in  his 
inner  ear. 

100 


HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS       101 

"Keep  your  head  down — Alleymand! 
Keep  your  head  down — Alleymand ! 
Late  last  night,  by  the  jfar-shell  light, 
We  sa-aw  you — we  sa-a-aw  you ! 
You  were  something — something  wire 
When  we  0/>ened  up  with  rapid-fire. 
If  you  want  to  see  your  father 
In  the  .Fa-ther-land, 
Keep  your  head  down,  Alley mand !" 

Ground  school  at  Columbus.  Singing  along  the  barrack 
bunks  at  night,  after  lights  out,  promptly  cut  into  by  a 
snarling  yelp  from  the  cadet  in  charge.  Texas.  Coughing 
at  Kelly  Field.  Coughing  your  heart  out.  The  fine  black 
Texas  dust.  Stealing  into  the  lavatory  to  choke  off  your 
coughing  that  roused  grumblings  and  pyrotechnic  cursing, — 
and  to  smoke  the  fag  that  sometimes  helped. 

The  War!  Good  heavens,  how  infinitely  far  away  that 
all  was! 

The  patriotism  of  The  Colosseum.  Maybe  that  was 
the  only  reason  they  had  taken  him  on  after  the  War,  even 
though  he  had  never  got  across,  and  the  Armistice  had  found 
him  bored  to  tears  at  desk  work  in  Washington.  About  ten 
Lieutenants  for  every  trivial  job.  Damn  the  War!  How 
terribly  excited  he  had  been — and  to  be  stuck  in  the  D.M.A. ! 
Well,  he  wanted  to  forget  all  that  forever.  Fizzle.  Fail 
ure.  Bunk.  Such  bunk!  So  much  hideous  bunk!  Good 
lord! 

Stagger,  camber,  angle  of  incidence,  flying  wires,  landing 
wires,  joy-stick,  elevators,  "keep  her  nose  on  the  hori 
zon".  .  . 

"Keep  your  head  down,  Alleymand.  .  .   !" 

Good    fun    though at    Hicks — especially    when    they 

thought  their  squadron  was  going  to  Mineola.  The  eternal 
morning  drone  of  the  planes.  "Con-tact!"  The  leather- 
hooded  figure  in  goggles  peering  over  the  coaming  of  the 
cockpit.  The  mechanic  revving-up,  then  dangerously  but 
dexterously  swinging  the  prop.  The  roar  of  it,  and  the 


102          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

rushing  wind.  The  bus  turned  toward  the  field  and  let 
go.  The  cold  air  in  his  face.  The  jouncing  rush,  tail  up, 
diminishing  across  the  turf,  blowing  off  the  ground  like  a 
feather,  rising,  rising  ...  a  droning  speck  in  the  clean, 
clear  blue  of  the  Texas  sky.  .  . 

Gosh! 

What  an  incredible  other  life  it  all  seemed !  Raf e  thought 
go  too.  Rafe  and  he  had  long  since  talked  themselves  out 
upon  it  all.  Fed  up.  Forever.  Completely.  But  some 
times  it  sang  in  the  blood  again. 

Who  is  this  woman  Bess  wants  me  to  meet?  Bess  is 
certainly  getting  darn  pretty.  Did  I  send  that  man's  manu 
script  back  with  my  letter?  Must  have.  No?  Sure,  I 
must  have.  Didn't  they  ever  know  what  was  good,  though? 
Why  the  devil  did  Old  T.  B.  turn  down  that  poem  of  Jean 
Doncett's? 

Have  to  go  around  the  Village  more  with  Rafe.  How 
he  loved  it!  Oh,  well,  when  you're  working  in  advertising. 
A  relief,  maybe.  But  you  ran  into  so  many  of  the  same 
people  in  an  editorial  office.  Mustn't  get  stodgy,  though. 
Wonder  when  I'd  better  manoeuvre  for  another  raise? 

Wasn't  it  warm!  Whew!  Must  be  hot  in  New  York. 
Always  hot  on  the  Fourth.  Was  that  a  tap?  "Yes?" 

"Slade,  you  can  get  your  bath  now." 

"Thanks,  Bess.     All  right." 

*  *  * 

Clothed  in  blue  coat  and  white  flannels,  and  considerably 
cooler,  he  sat  at  breakfast  with  Bessie  and  his  uncle. 

"What  are  you  two  doing  this  morning?"  asked  the 
Doctor. 

"I'm  going  to  take  Slade  over  to  see  Adela,"  Bessie  said. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Ventress.  Well oh,  all  right.  Not  going 

to  stay  there  all  morning  though,  are  you?" 

"Oh,  no,  that's  just  part  of  it.  I'm  going  to  take  Slade 
for  a  walk — if  it  isn't  too  hot." 

"Thought  Slade  wanted  to  play  tennis?' 

"The  Institute  court  is  so  bad  this  year " 


HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS       103 

"Oh,  no,  I  really  don't  care  at  all  about  that,"  interrupted 
Slade.  "Anything  Bessie  wants  to  do,  Uncle  Charles.  You 
aren't  coming  with  us?" 

"I  think  not.  I've  got  some  pottering  about  to  do,"  Dr. 
Gedney  always  referred  thus  to  his  writing.  "You  two  go. 
You'll  meet  the  famous  Mrs.  Ventress,  Slade.  Bessie's 
told  you  about  her?" 

"Yes.  Sounds  nice.  My,  your  drawing  has  improved, 
Bess,"  he  added,  turning  to  his  cousin. 

"Do  you  really  think  so?  It's  all  her.  But  you  hadn't 
seen  anything  for  some  time,  had  you?" 

"Not  for  two  years.  Why,  you  certainly  ought  to  be 
able  to  get  work  to  do  in  New  York." 

"Oh,  Slade!    Really?" 

"Sure.  I'm  positive  of  it.  But  what  do  you  think,  Uncle 
Charles?  Would  you  let  her  go?" 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Gedney,  "Bessie's  young  yet— not 
through  school.  Better  let  that  rest  a  little  while.  But  I 
know  she  wants  it.  And  I  think  she  could  do  it.  But  we'd 

better  let  it "  His  voice  trailed  away  into  silence.  It 

always  made  him  rather  nervous  to  think  of  Bessie's  leaving 

him, 

*  *  * 

"There  she  is,"  said  Bessie,  clutching  Slade's  arm  and 
pointing  over  the  hedge.  What  he  saw  was  principally  a 
hat  and  a  grey  dress.  Mrs.  Ventress  was  bending  over  a 
small  flower-bed  of  blue  lobelia  edged  with  white  alyssum. 
She  had  chamois  gloves  on,  with  holes  for  the  knuckles. 
She  was  doing  something  with  a  trowel. 

"Oo-oo !"  called  Bessie  softly. 

Adela  straightened  and  turned.  Her  wide  grey  hat  and 
the  cool  daintiness  of  her  dress  set  off  her  pretty  colour. 
Her  fair  skin  had  gained  a  tanned  warmth  from  walks  and 
working  in  the  garden.  Her  smile  was  odd  and  delightful. 

"Hello.    Who  have  you  there?" 

"This  is  my  cousin,  Slade,"  Bessie  presented,  as  Mrs. 
Ventress  came  toward  them.  Slade  removed  his  straw  hat 


104          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

and  shook  hands  over  the  hedge.  He  had  a  pleasant  three- 
cornered  grin. 

"Bessie's  certainly  been  singing  your  praises,"  he  said. 

"Has  she?  Well,  we've  had  some  nice  times,  haven't  we, 
Bessie?  Won't  you  come  in?  Do  you  mind  sitting  on  the 
porch  steps?  I  like  it." 

Slade  sat  on  the  step  below  the  two  women. 

"Isn't  he  nice?"  asked  Bessie,  suddenly  tousling  his  hair. 
"Now  Slade  will  hate  me.  He  hates  that." 

"Oh,  I  don't  really  believe  so,"  said  Adela,  amused. 

Slade  dug  in  the  walk  with  a  small  stick.  "You've  cer 
tainly  helped  her  a  lot  with  her  drawing,"  he  said  seriously, 
looking  up.  "I  want  her  to  come  to  New  York  and  try  her 
luck  after  she  graduates.  By  the  way,  you  come  from 
there  don't  you?" 

"Yes.     I'm  here  resting.    I  was  doing  a  little  work " 

"What  kind  of  work?" 

"Oh,  a  little  writing.  I  got  tired  of  it.  As  I  had  a  little 
money,  I  decided  to  come  here  for  a  while." 

"Writing?     What  kind  of  thing?" 

"Oh,  nothing  much,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress.  "Nothing  you 
ever  read,  I'm  sure.  Quite  unimportant.  Just  a  sort  of 
means  of  making  a  living.  But  I've  stopped  it.  I  don't 
have  to  any  more.  I'm — in  a  way — trying  to  find  myself." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"Oh,  thinking  of  taking  up  something  else  and  wonder 
ing  what  it  is  to  be.  Anyway,  this  is  a  vacation.  So  don't 
let's  talk  about  my  'work'."  She  smiled. 

"I  know  she  writes  awfully  well,"  said  Bessie  with  con 
viction,  "and  that  she's  hiding  it  from  us.  She  won't  tell 
me  a  thing,  Slade.  She's  the  worst  woman!" 

She  looked  at  Adela  adoringly. 

"I'm  sure  she  does,"  said  Slade.  "You're  coming  over 
to  Uncle  Arthur's  this  evening,  aren't  you?"  he  asked  Mrs. 
Ventress.  "For  the  fireworks?" 

"Why,  Bessie  has  been  kind  enough  to  invite  me.  But 
I  haven't  met  your  Uncle — as  a  matter  of  fact  I  haven't 


HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS       105 

even  met  your  Uncle  Charles  yet — so  I  hardly  know " 

"Oh,  yes,  you  are/'  said  Bessie.  "That's  all  settled.  This 
afternoon  there's  a  parade  too,  the  firemen's,  down  Market 
Street.  But  I  don't  suppose  you'd  care  to  come  with  us?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  you'd  better  leave  me  out  of  that.  You 
two  go  along.  I'm  an  old  and  stodgy  person.  You'd  bet 
ter,  really.  I  don't  care  much  for  fanfare.  Didn't  they 
start  in  early  this  morning  with  the  fire-crackers  though? 
Of  course  you  heard  them?" 

"They  woke  me  up,"  answered  Slade.  "I  sleep  very 
lightly — they  always  do." 

As  he  looked  at  Adela  he  felt  that  he  had  never  seen  a 
more  charming  face.  How  pretty  and  graceful  she  was, 
and  how  young  she  looked.  What  was  her  story? 

"Do  you  like  New  York?"  he  asked. 

"I  did,  I  used  to.  I  don't  know.  I  wanted  to  get  away 
from  it.  It's  a  fascinating  city,  of  course — and  I've  oc 
casionally  hated  it  as  I've  hated  nothing  else  in  the  world." 

"Check,"  said  Slade.  "So  have  I.  Gets  on  all  one's 
nerves  sometimes.  Too  many  impressions  to  take  in  at  once. 
Three  ring  circus.' 

"You're  on  a  magazine  there,  aren't  you?  I  wonder  if 
you  know "  But  Adela  caught  herself  up. 

"Who?" 

"Oh,  nothing — just  someone  I  used  to  know  who  was  in 
the  publishing  business.  But  that  was  long  before  your  time 
of  course.  Do  you  like  it?"  she  added  to  change  the 
subject. 

"Yes.  It's  good  fun.  I've  learned  a  lot.  I  wanted  to 
write  myself " 

"Slade  does  write,"  interpolated  Bessie.  "Beautiful 
poetry." 

"Oh  no"  said  Slade  embarrassedly.  "No,  Bess.  I  brought 
out  one  book.  That  was  a  year  ago.  But  that  teaches  you 
something." 

"I  can  see  it  sometime,  can't  I  ?"  asked  Adela. 

"Why,  yes,"  said  Slade,  looking  up  again  with  the  same 


106          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

half-embarrassed,  half -speculative  expression  in  his  eyes. 
"If  you  want  to.  Do  you  write  poetry?" 

"Oh,  no.  But  there  are  certain  things  I  like.  I  might  like 
yours." 

"You  wouldn't,"  said  Slade  promptly,  slightly  gloomy. 
"But  I'm  going  on  with  it,"  he  added.  He  laughed  rather 
ruefully.  "I  can't  seem  to  cure  myself." 

"That's  a  good  sign,  I  should  think.  But  you're  pretty 
busy,  aren't  you,  with  the  office?" 

"Fairly.  And  of  course  it's  congenial  work.  But  after 
all,  it's  all  in  myself  if  I  ever  amount  to  anything.  I  may 
come  to  the  point  where  I  see  I  can't  write.  I  haven't  yet. 
Meanwhile,  as  I  said,  I'm  learning." 

"How  do  you  like  it  here  ?"  he  asked  a  moment  later. 

"Very  much.    I'm  not  so  sure  the  people  like  me " 

"Oh,  they  do  I"  Bessie  sprang  to  her  defence  against  her 
own  suspicion. 

"No,  I'm  not  at  all  so  sure  they  do.  Perhaps  I've  kept 
too  much  to  myself.  But  after  all,  that's  what  I  came  down 
here  for.  And  I  am  getting  a  thorough  rest.  Oh,  I  love  this 
old  garden.  I  love  the  quiet.  I  think  I'll  stand  the  hot 
weather  all  right,  too.  It  hasn't  proved  so  very  hot  yet. 
Well,  you  two  will  want  to  be  running  along.  What  time 
am  I  expected  at  your  Uncle's,  Bessie?" 

"Oh,  Slade  and  I  will  call  for  you,"  said  Bessie.  "About 
eight  o'clock." 

"Good.     I'll  be  ready." 

"There'll  be  some  ice-cream!"  (Bessie  smiled  at  her  own 
childishness.) 

"Better  still !    Good-bye,"  laughed  Adela. 

"Good-bye,"  they  smiled  from  the  gate. 

"Yes,  she  certainly  is  most  attractive,"  commented  Slade 
as  they  walked  home.  "Awfully  nice.  She  has  beautiful 
eyes,  hasn't  she?" 

He  seemed  abstracted.  Bessie  ran  into  a  eulogium  of 
Mrs.  Ventress's  many  singular  merits. 

The  afternoon  proved  hot  and  noisy.    Standing  on  grocery 


HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS       107 

boxes,  Slade  and  Bessie  watched  for  a  little  while  the  Fire 
men's  parade.  Then  it  bored  them.  A  small  hole  was 
burned  in  Bessie's  dress  by  a  youthful  patriot's  brown  stick 
of  punk.  The  pervading  gunpowdery  smell  was  everywhere 
in  their  nostrils,  and  the  dust.  Desultory  popping  and 
crackling  down  Market  Street  continued  through  their  light 
supper.  They  stopped  for  Mrs.  Ventress  while  the  day  was 
still  light.  She  awaited  them  all  in  white.  She  looked  per 
fectly  attired  and  dainty  and  cool.  Slade  noticed  the  rose- 
leaf  colour  in  her  face.  He  did  not  realise  that  he  was 
staring. 

"Oh,  how  lovely  you  look,"  called  the  more  articulate  Bes 
sie,  and  ran  up  the  steps  to  kiss  her  friend.  They  linked 
arms.  They  proceeded  toward  Sycamore  Street  and  Uncle 
Arthur's. 

It  was  dusk  by  the  time  they  arrived.  It  was  just  the 
family.  Dr.  Gedney  and  Uncle  Arthur  were  already  taking 
a  turn  under  the  apple  trees.  Uncle  Arthur  was  a  white 
blur  in  a  panama  suit,  Dr.  Gedney  a  blur,  as  to  clothes,  of 
dark  blue.  The  faces  of  both  were  indistinct  in  the  shadowy 
orchard.  Slade  began  to  light  the  Chinese  lanterns  that 
lay  telescoped  upon  the  grass. 

After  the  introduction  of  a  slightly  shy  Adela,  Uncle 
Arthur  turned  to  a  wooden  box  in  which  reposed  the  pin- 
wheels,  flower-pots  and  Roman  candles.  Wicker  chairs  had 
been  set  out.  Dr.  Gedney  seated  himself  in  the  dim  light 
next  to  Mrs.  Ventress  with  Bessie  on  his  other  side.  The 
Chinese  lanterns  swayed  to  a  slight  breeze  and  hung  like 
bizarre  softly-glowing  giant  fruit  from  the  glimmering 
boughs.  Slade  set  off  some  red  fire  and  came  distributing 
sparklers. 

Uncle  Arthur  attached  a  pinwheel  and  delivered  himself 
of  several  of  his  odd  exclamations  as  it  stuck  and  spent  its 
golden  stream  of  fire  upon  the  ground.  Slade  grinned. 
Presently  the  company  were  busy  with  the  Roman  candles. 

Mrs.  Ventress  even  lighted  a  nigger-chaser  which  imper 
illed  her  silk  stockings.  Coloured  fire  burnt  about  them, 


108          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

smokily  and  vividly.  Outside  the  illumination  made  by  the 
fireworks  the  night  upon  the  orchard  was  blue-black,  sil 
vered  by  the  faint  moon. 

Dr.  Gedney  was  a  shy  man.  He  had  exchanged  a  few 
rather  stereotyped  remarks  with  Adela,  always  looking  at 
her  sideways,  not  seeing  her  very  well.  Bessie  had  rattled 
on  at  a  great  rate.  Slade  had  been  rather  silent,  absorbed 
in  their  entertainment.  So  had  Uncle  Arthur.  After  the 
fireworks  faded  they  all  seated  themselves  in  the  last  glim 
mering  of  the  lanterns.  "Slade,"  said  Uncle  Arthur,  "the 
ice-cream's  on  the  back  steps."  "I'll  help,"  said  Bessie, 
jumping  up.  "And  can't  I?"  asked  Adela,  rising.  For 
answer  Bessie  reached  for  her  hand.  She  nodded  apology 
to  the  two  men,  who  murmured  something.  Slade  leading, 
Adela  and  Bessie  picked  their  way  up  a  shadowy  and  crunchy 
gravel  path,  and,  in  the  light  of  the  unshaded  electric  bulb 
in  the  ceiling  of  the  back  porch,  found  the  freezer. 

Slade's  first  attempt  to  disinter  the  ice-cream  from  its 
ice-pack  was  clumsy,  and  before  he  knew  it  a  pair  of  firm 
white  arms  had  taken  his  task  away.  His  own  hands,  at 
the  slight  brushing  touch,  suddenly  seemed  enormous  and 
ungainly.  The  scent  of  Adela's  hair  was  upon  his  senses 
as  she  bent  her  head.  She  became  very  small,  to  be  pro 
tected.  He  stepped  quickly  away  from  her.  He  stood  re 
garding  her  as  she  knelt  over  the  dasher,  and  began  a  prac 
tical  skillful  disinterment  of  the  metal  container  of  the 
ice-cream. 

"Slade !  Don't  let  her  do  that !  She's  not  strong  enough." 
Bessie  was  at  the  top  of  the  porch  steps,  entering  the  kitchen 
for  the  cakes. 

He  came  forward  again,  protesting,  but  Mrs.  Ventress 
waved  him  aside.  She  could  do  it.  Give  her  a  chance. 

A  miller  moth  fluttered  and  blundered  about  the  electric 
bulb  above  the  porch  steps.  The  nape  of  Adela's  neck  was 
white,  the  dark  bronze  hair  above  it  strayed  in  two  crinkly 
curls.  Her  white  forearms  tugged  at  the  dasher. 

Slade  leaned  forward  and  her  face  turned  upward  toward 


HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS       109 

him.  Her  eyes  danced.  "Beautiful  ice-cream!"  she  said 
with  mock  awe.  It  came  out  really  perfectly  and  was  dis 
tributed  to  the  plates  Bessie  had  brought.  Slade  reached 
over  and  purloined  a  piece  of  less  salty  ice  from  the  freezer. 
It  bulged  his  cheek.  He  looked  up  at  Bessie,  now  standing 
with  a  plate  in  each  hand.  His  light  hair  curled  moistly 
upon  his  forehead. 

"With  neatness  and  dispatch,"  remarked  Slade. 

"Yes,  but  Adela  did  all  the  work,"  said  Bessie. 

Slade  was  repentant.  "I'm  so  sorry.  You  certainly 
did,"  he  turned  to  Adela.  She  evidently  wasn't  listening. 

She  was  standing  on  the  lower  step  gazing  out  into  the 
dark  orchard.  Her  profile  caught  the  light.  Her  brows 
seemed  sombre. 

"What?"  she  asked,  turning  toward  him  with  the  vague 
expression  of  a  person  interrupted  in  reverie. 

"I  say  you  were  so  quick  I'm  afraid  I  wasn't  much  help." 

"What?    Oh  no!    No  indeed.    But  look,  children!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"Just  the  moon!" 

It  had  floated  clear  of  silver-edged  cloud,  cloud  that  had 
long  dimmed  it.  It  glowed  as  bright  as  a  fire-balloon  above 
the  massed  mysterious  shadow  of  the  trees,  round  and  buoy 
ant.  The  night  sky  was  a  deep  plum-blue.  Adela  had 
raised  one  arm,  pointing  toward  it,  her  face  lifted. 

It  lasted  but  an  instant.  Slade  drew  in  his  breath.  His 
face  looked  puzzled.  But  Bessie's  eyes  were  quick.  She  was 
glancing  at  him  keenly.  Meanwhile  her  friend  had  turned 
perfectly  naturally  and  picked  up  a  plate.  Slade  secured 
two.  The  next  instant  they  were  all  on  their  way  over 
the  wet  grass,  Indian  file,  rejoining  Dr.  Gedney  and  Uncle 
Arthur. 

In  deep  shadow  they  sat  in  a  half-circle,  eating  ice-cream, 
pistache  and  vanilla,  aware  of  the  bright  moon  through 
black  raggedly-silhouetted  foliage.  A  silence  held  them, 
broken  only  by  the  tink  of  spoon  on  plate  and  the  scratch 
of  the  match  to  Uncle  Arthur's  cigar. 


110          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Slade  stood  on  the  other  side  of  Scamander  under  high 
dark  battlements.  On  the  broad  height  of  those  battle 
ments  a  woman  of  silver  walked  in  blue  moonlight.  In  his 
mouth  was  a  taste  of  blood  and  tears.  In  his  heart  was  a 
murmuring  of  fire.  The  dark,  blood-stained  shadows  of  the 
plain  were  beautiful,  beautiful  as  the  strictness  of  a  sword 
the  metallic  brilliance  of  the  moon.  Most  beautiful  the  poise 
and  sway  of  the  woman  who  walked  between  earth  and 
heaven,  slowly  and  proudly. 

A  young,  plantigrade,  biped  mammal — in  trouble  as  usual. 

Mrs.  Ventress  was  laughing  at  him  softly.  "You  are 
a  thousand  miles  away.  Your  uncle  asked  you  something." 

Uncle  Arthur  was  leaning  forward.    "Eh,  Slade?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir.    I  didn't  hear  you." 

"I  was  saying  that  the  pinwheels  were  managed  better 
this  Fourth." 

"Not  the  one  I  watched  you  with.    How  about  that  one?" 

"Oh,  well,"  returned  Uncle  Arthur.  "Aren't  there  excep 
tions  to  every  rule?" 

Both  laughed. 

Uncle  Arthur  resumed  his  smoking.  Slade  was  sitting 
next  to  his  Uncle  Charles.  Adela  and  Bessie  on  his  other 
side  were  talking  together  in  low  voices.  The  ice-cream  was 
finished.  The  sitters  were  blurred  in  shadow. 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Gedney's  voice,  "I  think  we  shall  have 
to  go,  Arthur.  This  has  certainly  been  very  pleasant.  What 
do  you  think,  Bess?" 

"Yes,  we  ought  to,"  said  Bessie,  rising,  after  a  murmur 
to  Mrs.  Ventress  who  answered  it  with  an  assenting  mur 
mur.  She  rose  also. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  have  met  you,"  Uncle  Arthur  was  all 
courtesy.  "Bessie  has  told  me " 

Bessie  smiled  to  herself  in  the  darkness.  Slade  moved 
past  her  toward  Mrs.  Ventress. 

"Have  a  nice  time?"  asked  his  cousin,  peering  for  his 
face. 

"Great!     Wasn't  it?     (Good-night,  sir!)     Yes,  I  cer- 


HELEN  AND  THE  CHINA  ANIMALS       111 

tainly  did.    Good  night  for  a  poem,  isn't  it.    Something 

He  broke  off.  Dr.  Gedney  and  Mrs.  Ventress  were  ahead 
of  them.  He  could  hear  his  uncle  answering  a  question  in 
that  shy,  dry  voice  of  his. 

Of  course  she  wasn't  Trojan  Helen  at  all.  But  what  a 
beautiful  gesture !  And  how  darned  nice  and  natural !  What 
had  her  life  been?  Why  had  she  looked  so  sad? 

"Slade!"  Bessie  was  lightly  shaking  his  arm. 

"Yeah— I'm  sorry— what?" 

"Don't  push  me  off  the  path  like  that,  that's  all.  Here's 
the  gate." 

"I  am  sorry." 

"Thinking  up  your  poem?" 

"Uh — oh,  no — I  was  just  mooning,  I  guess.  Isn't  it  a 
nice  night?" 

Bessie  did  not  answer  immediately.  Then  she  said  in- 
consequently. 

"The  moonlight's  so  bright  on  the  road,  I  think  I'll  dance." 

She  was  suddenly  on  ahead  of  them,  running,  twirling. 
If  she  had  not  been  so  graceful  you  might  have  called  it 
capering.  She  skipped. 

The  Scythe  hung  low  in  the  Eastern  heaven,  Regulus 
its  bright  star  near  the  earth.  The  sky  coruscated  with  an 
incrustation  of  stars.  Up  to  them,  up  and  up,  glittered  the 
Dream,  beatific,  solitary  as  their  light.  .  .  . 

Bessie  was  waiting  for  Slade  and  the  other  two  at  Mrs. 
Ventress's  gate.  They  were  all  mildly  amused  at  her. 
There  was  persiflage.  Adela  thanked  them  all  and  said  good 
night.  Bessie  waved  at  her  in  an  airy  manner.  Adela 
flirted  her  hand  and  smiled.  Bessie  wove  a  saraband  ahead 
of  the  two  men  on  the  way  home.  Her  father  kept  saying 
absently,  "No,  do  come  back  here !"  Slade  seemed  absent- 
minded.  At  the  Gedney  gate  Bessie  fell  into  step  with 
them.  "Ooh,  I'm  tired.  Wasn't  it  fun  though."  She  was 
a  little  breathless.  "I  am  tired.  I'm  going  right  up.  Good 
night."  She  had  disappeared  when  they  entered  the  small 
hall. 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

She  stood  in  the  dark  of  her  room,  slowly  undressing  and 
regarding  the  China  Animals.  In  the  dark,  she  made  a 
face  at  them.  She  moved  over  to  the  window  and  stood, 
her  dark  hair  falling  below  her  shoulders,  regarding  the  now 
golden  moon.  She  straightened  her  shoulders  with  a  shrug, 
cocked  her  head. 

"I  don't  care,"  she  said,  almost  inaudibly. 

She  made  another  face  at  the  China  Animals  before  she 
knelt  to  say  her  prayer. 


CHAPTER  XII:    THE   CHRISTIAN  MARTYR   OF 
"THE  COLOSSEUM" 

SLADE  journeyed  back  to  the  junction  the  next  morning, 
where  you  caught  the  train  for  Philadelphia.  Bessie 
had  seemed  to  him  a  little  odd  at  breakfast.  Some  new  ele 
ment  had  entered  their  natural  camaraderie,  or  did  he  only 
fancy  it?  He  didn't  quite  understand. 

When  the  time  had  come  to  go  down  to  the  station  she 
accompanied  him  naturally  enough,  in  the  rattly  herdic,  but 
she  had  little  to  say.  She  said  good-bye  with  some  humour 
ous  remark  and  urged  him  to  come  again  soon,  waved  even, 
as  the  weathered  old  cars  got  under  way  and  the  windows 
began  to  pass.  But  there  was  something  that  his  subcon 
scious  mind  stored  away,  something  puzzling. 

Bessie  was  a  clever  child.  He  liked  to  be  with  her.  She 
was  vivid  and  refreshing.  They  had  been  companions  off 
and  on  for  a  number  of  years,  from  the  time  when  a  young 
ster  of  fourteen  had  sat  on  the  porch  of  the  Gedney  house 
(upon  a  certain  visit  his  father  and  he  had  paid  their 
cousins)  drawing  misshapen  caricatures  for  the  delectation 
of  a  black-eyed,  black-haired  infant  of  six.  The  infant  of 
six  had  beamed  upon  him  with  whole-hearted  appreciation 
of  his  amazing  artistry.  She  was  growing  up  fast,  cer 
tainly.  She  was  one  of  the  few  relatives  he  cared  about. 
She  was  a  nice  child. 

She  certainly  could  draw,  if  he  knew  anything  about  it. 
How  nice  of  Mrs.  Ventress  to  help  her!  What  was  Mrs. 
Ventress's  story  ?  Wasn't  she  reticent  about  herself  !  How 
kind  though,  kind  and  beautiful.  "Really  one  of  the  love 
liest  looking  women  I've  ever  seen  in  my  life!" 

A  fantastic  joke  occurred  to  him  that  he  would  like  to 

113 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

write  her.  It  referred  to  the  ice-cream.  It  would  amuse 
her.  He  could  see  her  smile  and  the  way  her  eyebrows 
went  up  even  more.  He  could  hear,  faintly,  her  laughter. 
He  wondered,  innocently  enough,  whether  she  wrote  an 

amusing  letter.     Sure  to.  ... 

*  *  * 

Bessie  was  singularly  quiet  when  she  came  to  Adela  for 
drawing  on  Tuesday.  Teased  gently  as  to  her  thoughts,  she 
assumed  a  far-away  smile  that  held  the  faintest  touch  of 
bitterness.  She  then  favoured  her  older  friend  with  a  long 
candid  glance.  She  then  burst  into  a  typically  Bessieish 
fit  of  high  spirits,  and  rattled  off  a  lot  of  nonsense.  But  she 
did  not  answer  directly  any  questions.  She  turned  them  off 
with  the  mischievousness  of  an  elf.  She  was  moody  youth 
personified.  Once  she  actually  seemed  to  be  trying  to  pick 
a  slight  quarrel  with  Adela  over  a  discussion  of  illustrators. 
But  she  left  the  house  waving  a  gay  farewell. 

*  *  * 

Slade  found  the  manuscripts  piled  up  for  him  on  his 
desk  at  The  Colosseum  office.  The  mousy  Associate  Editor 
hardly  seemed  aware  of  his  absence  or  return.  He  was  still 
hunting  in  the  rat's  nest  of  his  roll-top  for  the  papers  he 
seemed  always  just  on  the  point  of  finding — and  never  quite 
did.  He  was  scratching  his  head  in  the  same  way,  behind  the 
ear;  stalking  into  the  office  of  the  Editor-in-Chief  to  voice 
opinions  on  current  politics  in  the  same  resonant  accents, 
thence  to  return  to  the  inextricable  mixing  of  the  papers 
upon  his  desk. 

Slade  departed  that  evening  for  his  room  on  Charles 
Street  in  Greenwich  Village,  with  a  brief-case  full  of  manu 
scripts  he  intended  reading  overnight. 

*  *  * 

The  offices  of  The  Colosseum  Publishing  Company  were 
in  a  high  building  on  the  North  side  of  Union  Square, 
directly  below  the  offices  of  a  prominent  collar  company  and 
above  those  of  an  Armenian  Rug  Firm.  The  gold-lettered 
firm-names  of  all  three  emblazoned  the  rather  dingy  stone 


CHRISTIAN  MARTYR  OF  "THE  COLOSSEUM"    115 

structure  and  called  to  you  from  across  the  Square.  The 
rather  cramped  and  rickety  elevator,  in  which  you  ascended 
in  charge  of  a  lean  and  seedy  individual,  was  quite  behind  the 
times  so  far  as  modern  efficiency  was  concerned.  It  let  you 
out  in  a  narrow  hallway,  confronted  by  a  length  of  plate 
glass  behind  which  the  accounting  department  fussed  with 
its  ledgers  and  comptometers.  On  your  left  a  glass-panelled 
door  opened  upon  an  information  desk  and  telephone  switch 
board  in  close  proximity  to  the  Cashier's  cage.  The  further 
semicircular  sweep  of  the  enclosing  counter  held  books  dis 
played  under  glass.  Beyond  and  behind  it  were  various 
desks,  back  of  them  all  the  offices  of  the  officers  of  the  Com 
pany.  Passing  around  the  enclosing  counter  and  to  the  rear, 
away  from  the  tall  south-facing  windows  on  Union  Square, 
you  turned  to  your  left  again  into  a  dark  high-ceilinged  hall 
way.  The  first  spacious  and  portiered  door  to  your  right 
admitted  you  to  the  reception  room  of  The  Colosseum- 
Magazine.  It  'was  all  impressive,  the  thick  carpets  under 
your  feet  made  progress  noiseless. 

The  offices  were  ancient,  an  antique  legend  haunted  about 
their  shape,  immaterial  trumpets  seemed  softly  to  bruit  an 
cient  fame  from  the  four  dusty  corners  of  that  high-ceilinged 
reception-room,  so  secretly  placed  in  the  very  heart  of  this 
aloof  and  eminent  publishing  organization  that  its  one  small 
window,  opening  upon  an  air-shaft,  was  totally  insufficient  to 
provide  it  with  illumination.  All  day  through,  winter  or 
summer,  a  large  shallow  marble-white  bowl  hung  upon  four 
bronze  chains  above  the  center  of  the  room,  suffused  gold- 
tinged  reflected  lighting,  a  subdued  radiance  inoffensive  to 
the  hallowed  walls  hung  with  the  choicest  work  of  now- 
eminent  illustrators. 

On  your  left,  as  you  entered  the  doorway,  stood  a  small 
brown-corduroy-upholstered  sofa,  catacornered  between  the 
door  you  had  entered  and  the  high  wide  entrance  to  the  fur 
ther  realms  of  the  Art  Department.  Across  the  room, 
directly  in  front  of  you,  in  limine  of  a  further  vista  of  large 
apartments,  stood  two  desks.  The  one  on  the  left-hand,  in 


116          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

full  view  against  the  wall,  was  a  wide  typewriter  desk  with  a 
drop-light  over  it.  The  one  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
vaulted  entrance  to  the  editorial  rooms  was  a  high  roll-top 
tucked  away  in  the  corner  by  the  air-shaft  window  and 
backed  by  a  green-curtained  book-case.  These  flanked  the 
awe-inspiring  vista  of  more  soft-piled  carpet  under  high  ceil 
ings,  with  glimpses  of  two  desks  in  the  editorial  rooms  be 
yond — and  of  the  tall  south  windows  beside  them  that  again 
caught  sight  of  the  sky  above  the  Square. 

The  atmosphere  of  the  editorial  rooms  was  a  vatic  silence, 
broken  only  by  occasional  soft  footsteps,  whisperings,  rust 
lings  of  papers,  and  undertoned  by  the  hum  of  distant  con 
versation.  The  penetrator  into  these  mystic  precincts  was 
bound  to  feel  the  unbidden  awe  steal  over  him. 

At  a  flat-topped  desk  in  the  room  beyond  the  reception- 
room,  Slade  sat  all  day,  reading  or  editing  manuscripts. 
Across  the  room  sat  Miss  Peabody  in  her  immaculate  neat 
ness  of  dress,  with  her  pleasantly  sardonic  smile.  She  sat 
up  very  straight  and  read  book  manuscripts,  while  Slade 
read  for  the  magazine.  She  knew  exactly  how  to  manage 
any  man  in  the  office.  She  had  been  known  to  remark  that 
any  man  was  shamefully  easy  to  manage.  Few  could  equal 
her  sedate  but  withering  scorn  of  the  things  she  didn't  like. 
Also  there  was  always  a  mischievous  look  in  her  eyes. 

Slade  liked  her  for  these  things,  and  for  the  fact  that  his 
occasional  outbursts,  when  manuscripts  were  turned  down 
that  he  had  wanted  accepted,  and  vice  versa,  appeared  both 
to  amuse  and  please  her.  In  a  less  childish  and  far  more 
effective  way  she  often  herself  besieged  the  Powers  that 
Were.  Her  feeling  for  good  writing  was  uncompromising 
and  intuitive.  Both  she  and  Slade  frequently  held  con 
ferences  of  mutiny  against  some  of  the  policies  and  pre 
dilections  of  the  Editor  and  Associate  Editor. 

From  nine  in  the  morning  till  five  in  the  evening,  with  an 
hour  off  for  lunch  which  was  frequently  stretched  to  an 
hour  and  a  half,  Slade  pored  over  the  literary  work  of  other 
people  and  secretly  wrote  an  occasional  verse.  He  was  not 


CHRISTIAN  MARTYR  OF  "THE  COLOSSEUM"    117 

especially  gregarious  at  lunch-time.  Sometimes  he  called  up 
Rafe  who  toiled  in  an  advertising  agency  on  44th  Street,  and 
they  met  at  some  half-way  point  for  a  meal  together.  Some 
times  he  went  out  with  a  group  of  other  men  in  the  office. 
Sometimes  he  wandered  alone  over  to  Scheffel  Hall  on  East 
1 7th  Street  or  up  Broadway  to  Madison  Square  lunchrooms. 
At  five  o'clock  he  left  the  office,  usually  to  walk  home, 
though  he  quite  as  usually  came  to  work  in  the  morning  via 

the  Sixth  Avenue  "L." 

*  *  * 

Upon  this  particular  hot  afternoon  he  turned  south  on 
Broadway  past  Union  Square,  traversed  I4th  Street  to  Fifth 
Avenue  and  proceeded  down  that  thoroughfare  toward  the 
Washington  Square  Arch,  where  the  zone  of  high  buildings 
sacred  to  silks,  stockings,  cloaks  and  suits  became  a  district 
of  lower  buildings  mixed  with  apartment  houses  and  private 
residences,  and  marked  off  by  two  historic  churches. 

Young  Breckinridge  was  slightly  above  the  average  height, 
fair  of  skin,  blue-eyed,  with  close-cropped  light  brown  hair. 
His  clothes  were  never  sufficiently  pressed.  His  neckties 
displayed  too  great  an  affection  for  raw  color.  His  fingers, 
that  were  now  occupied  with  pipe-bowl  and  brief-case,  bore 
stains  of  ink  and  nicotine.  He  was  twenty-four.  He  had 
been  with  the  Colosseum  for  four  years.  He  had,  within 
that  time,  risen  from  addressing  envelopes  and  entering 
manuscripts  to  first  reader  of  all  manuscripts  submitted,  at 
a  salary  amounting  to  forty  dollars  a  week.  His  features 
had  a  certain  healthy  and  agreeable  ugliness,  and  he  needed 
to  shave  only  every  other  day.  His  teeth  were  white  and 
regular,  his  grin  frank  and  pleasant.  His  eyes  were  always 
either  absent-minded  or  amused.  His  temperament  was 
essentially  easygoing,  with  spasms  of  red  rebellion,  against 
everything,  spasms  that  usually  manifested  themselves  only 
in  his  poetry. 

He  and  Rafe  lived  in  two  rooms  upon  the  top  floor  of  a 
tall,  narrow,  high-stooped  brick  house  in  the  upper  part  of 
Charles  Street.  The  smaller  room  was  Slade's.  There  was 


118          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

just  space  enough  in  it  for  a  bed,  a  bureau  and  a  diminutive, 
rickety-legged  table.  It  had  two  doors,  one  at  the  head  of 
his  bed,  opening  directly  on  the  dingy,  dark,  narrow  hall, 
one  near  the  window  opening  upon  Rafe's  larger  room. 
Rafe's  wider  bed  was  made  up  like  a  couch  in  the  daytime, 
with  a  worn  imitation  tapestry  cover.  Both  rooms  were  lit 
at  night  by  tattered  redly-glowing  welsbachs.  In  an  alcove 
at  the  rear  of  Rafe's  room  was  a  washstand.  At  the  front 
of  the  room  were  two  windows,  with  a  large  writing  table 
between,  under  the  light.  The  street  in  the  summer  even 
ings  was  full  of  the  wild  din  of  all  the  children  of  the  neigh 
borhood  at  play.  Later,  when  the  children  went  to  bed,  the 
cats  came  out  and  started  musical  activities.  The  windows 
across  the  street  always  showed  stout  women  in  kimonos  or 
bovine  men  in  shirt-sleeves  elbow-hunched  upon  the  sills. 
The  house  always  smelt  slightly  of  mould  and  cooking  vege 
tables.  On  the  floor  below  them  lived  a  Village  dramatist 
who  believed  he  was  a  Rosicrucian.  In  another  cubby-hole 
hall  bedroom  in  the  rear  on  their  own  floor  slept  a  Princeton 
man  of  their  own  ages  who  declaimed  Homer  in  the  original 
Greek  every  morning  while  dressing.  His  name  was  Jerry 
Callender,  and  he  assisted  in  running  the  Book  Review  Sec 
tion  of  a  large  metropolitan  newspaper.  As  he  had  a  wide 
circle  of  friends  he  was  always  out  in  the  evenings.  In  the 
mornings,  when  all  three  were  up  and  hanging  over  the  stair- 
rail  to  see  if  the  bathroom  on  the  floor  below  was  clear,  they 
mutually  indulged  in  song,  dance  and  badinage.  The  Rosi 
crucian  had  filed  several  claims  that  this  disturbed  his  mystic 
morning  slumbers.  But  they  were  three  against  one. 

This  evening,  when  -he  had  entered  the  dark  first-floor 
hallway,  at  about  a  quarter  of  six,  and  mounted  creakingly 
and  with  long-legged  strides  to  the  top  and  third  floor,  Slade 
found  Rafe  sprawled  out  upon  his  couch  bed,  reading  "The 
Lake",  by  George  Moore. 

"H'lo,"  said  Rafe. 

"H'lo.    You're  early." 

"Yeah.     They  turned  that  account  over  to  Lapham  after 


CHRISTIAN  MARTYR  OF  "THE  COLOSSEUM"   119 

all.  Know  what  I  mean?  Made  me  sore.  I  got  that  bank 
stuff  in  shape  to-day,  but  there  wasn't  much  else  to  do.  I 
quit  at  half-past  four.  Old  Pooley  was  out  and  you  could 
have  fried  eggs  on  his  desk.  Maybe  that  damned  mouser 
Mitchell  will  chalk  it  up  against  me,  but  I  don't  care.  Old 
Pooley  likes  my  stuff  and  I  don't  soldier  usually.  .  .  .  A- 
a-a-a-a-h!"  Rafe  raised  his  long  corded  brown  arms  and 
stretched  with  a  grotesque  yawn.  "Why  be  a  slave  all  your 
life.  Damn  advertising.  It's  the  greatest  lot  of  bunk  in  the 
world.  But  a  man  must  live.  Where  you  going  to  dinner  ?" 

"I  don't  know.     I've  got  some  stuff  to  read  to-night." 

Slade  had  divested  himself  of  coat  and  shirt  and  stood  in 
a  singlet  lighting  a  cigarette  in  cupped  hands.  He  threw  the 
burnt  match  in  the  general  direction  of  the  window. 

"Here,  quit  that!  Who  keeps  this  room  clean?  Defilin' 
house  of  refuge !" 

"House  of  ill-fame,"  returned  Slade  grinning,  and  knelt 
upon  the  chest  of  the  prostrate  figure — whereupon  the  pros 
trate  figure  arose  and  wrestled  with  him. 

But  it  was  too  warm.  After  a  few  seconds  of  grinning, 
gasping  gripping  of  each  other,  swaying  back  and  forth  in 
unsuccessful  attempts  at  a  throw,  they  desisted.  Rafe  went 
back  to  the  wash-basin  and  began  soaking  his  head  with  a 
great  splutter.  Slade  returned  to  his  room,  completely  re 
moved  all  apparel  and  wrapped  himself  in  a  towel-material 
dressing-gown.  A  moment  later  he  was  running  a  bath  be 
low. 

"Hey!"  Rafe  shouted  down  the  stair-well,  "want  to  go 
over  to  Christine's?" 

"Don't  care,"  Slade  yelled  back.     !'Sure!" 

Half  an  hour  later  they  left  the  house  together. 
*  *  * 

Slade  returned  to  his  hall-bedroom  at  about  ten  o'clock. 
He  had  broken  away  from  a  group  who  were  going  over  to 
the  Blue  Horse  on  Christopher  Street.  As  he  climbed  the 
stairs  the  tag-end  of  an  economic  argument  between  Bur- 
wash,  a  Socialist,  and  Edgren,  who  upheld  something  called 


120         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

the  sovereignty  of  the  Ultimate  Consumer,  still  rang  in  his 
ears. 

"You  mean  to  tell  me,"  it  was  Burwash  on  the  aggressive, 
"that  for  a  hundred  million  people  in  close  communication, 
the  social  organization  originally  intended  for  about  one- 
sixth  that  number,  loosely  in  touch,  is  suitable?" 

"No,  but " 

"If  institutions  don't  accord  with  the  facts  of  nature  they 
result  in  revolution!" 

"Yes,  but " 

"To-day  we  have  substituted  the — the  turbine  for  the  pad 
dle  wheel,  the  telegraph  and  telephone  for  the  ox-cart,  and 
yet " 

"But  you  don't  get  me,  Bur.  What's  the  purpose  of  an 
industrial  system  anyway?  To  feed  the  ultimate  consumer. 
And  right  to-day  the  ultimate  consumer  has  a  certain 
sovereignty  over  conditions  as  they  are,  if  he  knew  how  to 
use  it.  They  aren't  organised,  that's  all.  The  drift  is  out 
of  productive  and  into  negotiative  occupations,  and  into  an 
accelerated  accumulation  of  interest-bearing  securities.  The 
shop-counter ' ' 

"Oh,  I  know,  now  you're  going  into  commercial  credit. 
But  I  tell  you  that  doesn't  touch  the  root  of  it." 

"And  I  say  it  does." 

"Property  is  robbery!" 

"Very  likely;  but  don't  forget  the  rest  of  Prudhomme. 
'Possession  is  liberty' !" 

"And  we  mean  to  get  it " 

"But  not  in  the  right  way.    Over  the  shop-counter " 

The  argumentative  voices  died  away  in  Slade's  brain.  He 
entered  his  room  and  stood  lighting  the  Welsbach  while  an 
"L"  train  groaned  raucously  on  a  far  curve.  It  was  very  hot 
in  the  cubicle  when  the  Welsbach  was  lit.  A  baby  was  crying 
like  a  saw  in  the  crowded  house  opposite.  A  cat  was  meow- 
ling  and  rummaging  in  the  garbage  can.  A  kale  and  cabbage 
smell  insinuated  itself  via  the  hall  door,  but  it  was  too  hot  to 
close  it.  Slade  opened  his  brief-case  and  took  out  some 


CHRISTIAN  MARTYR  OF  "THE  COLOSSEUM"   121 

manuscripts.  He  removed  his  damp  soft  collar  and  un 
buttoned  his  collar  button,  turning  the  neck-band  of  his  shirt 
under  all  around  the  neck.  He  donned  a  pair  of  horn  glasses 
that  made  him  look  like  an  owl.  He  tilted  his  small  chair 
back  against  the  wall  next  the  door  to  Rafe's  room,  which 
was  open  for  coolness,  and  put  his  feet  upon  the  table. 

He  stuffed  and  lit  his  Dunhill.  With  a  sigh  he  began  to 
read  typewritten  pages.  Several  manuscripts  in  covers 
stamped  with  the  imprint  of  different  agents  he  finally  tossed 
upon  the  bed.  He  flipped  open  a  third,  after  removing  it 
from  its  envelope.  It  had  evidently  been  sent  in  direct  by 
the  writer.  It  was  typed  neatly,  but  the  top  sheet  was  newly 
folded  and  stiff,  while  those  beneath  were  far  more  worn 
and  pliable.  The  thing  was  called  "The  Crystal  Castle." 
Slade's  eyes  travelled  down  the  first  two  paragraphs  with 
only  a  gradually  mitigating  boredom.  Then  he  began  to 
read  intently. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room  for  fifteen  minutes,  ex 
cept  the  occasional  rustle  of  a  page.  Then  the  reader  stirred, 
sighed,  tossed  the  manuscript  upon  the  table  and  scrapingly 
removed  his  feet  therefrom.  He  arose  and  stood  staring  at 
the  five-thousand  word  story,  which  he  had  carefully  read 
through  twice. 

"Holy  cat!"  he  muttered.  "Holy  cat!"  He  whistled 
softly. 

He  entered  Rafe's  room  and  ran  the  cold  tap  in  the  alcove. 
Reading  under  that  Welsbach  was  warm  work.  He  washed 
his  face  and  let  the  water  run  upon  his  wrists.  He  poured  a 
drink  for  himself  in  the  glass  he  carefully  rinsed.  He  re 
turned  to  the  room  and  again  stood  over  the  table,  looking 
down  at  the  manuscript  and  scratching  his  head.  Then  he 
settled  himself  and  read  it  through  all  over  again. 

Rafe  came  in  at  12  130.  Slade  was  just  finishing  the  rest 
of  his  stint.  On  the  bed  lay  all  the  MSS.  that  had  come  home 
in  his  brief-case.  Four  short  stories,  two  articles,  ten  poems. 
On  the  table  reposed  one  lonely  folded  packet  of  typewriter- 
paper. 


122          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Hey,"  exclaimed  Slade,  as  his  room-mate  stood  in  the 
doorway,  pretending  to  regard  him  with  dour  displeasure. 
"For  God's  sake  read  this !" 

Rafe  lounged  in. 

"Rejecting  'em,  eh?  Sort  of  policy  worse-oh  of  the  Colos 
seum,  what?" 

"Oh,  my  God,"  groaned  Slade.     "Have  a  heart,  Rafe!" 

His  room-mate  grinned  rather  sheepishly.  He  seated 
himself  on  the  bed  without  more  ado,  supporting  his  feet 
upon  the  jutting  brass  handles  of  the  bureau.  He  took  the 
manuscript  Slade  tossed  him. 

He  began  with  his  head  on  the  pillow  and  the  typewritten 
sheets  held  on  high.  Rafe  was  a  little  far-sighted.  He 
ended  with  his  feet  on  the  floor  and  his  head  bent  over  the 
story.  After  he  had  read  the  last  word  he  sat  staring  at 
the  page. 

Then,  "Damn  good,  isn't  it?"  he  said  laconically,  and 
tossed  the  thing  at  Slade.  "Damn  good,"  he  said  again  as  he 
rose  and  stretched.  "Certainly  is.  Who's  it  by?" 

"That's  just  what  I  don't  know,"  said  Slade.  "There 
isn't  hide  or  hair  of  an  address  on  it.  Not  on  the  envelope. 
Not  on  this.  No  envelope  enclosed  either.  May  have  been. 
I'll  see  when  I  go  down  to-morrow.  But  isn't  it  good?  My 
lord — where  the  fox-terrier  stands  up  at  the  window.  My 
gosh!  Why,  it's  a  wonderful  yarn — and  so  beautifully  writ 
ten." 

"Yep.  Bet  anything  it's  by  a  well-known  man,  though. 
Probably  the  agent'll  ask  you  five  hundred  for  it,  or  a  thou 
sand." 

"But  it  didn't  come  through  an  agent." 

"Didn't,  eh?  Well,  it's  by  some  well-known  crab,  any 
way.  You  can  tell.  Yeah,  it's  a  story  you  ought  to  use. 
Well,  I  shook  that  gas-bag  Burwash  finally.  There  was 
dancing  down  in  the  Blue  Horse.  You  ought  to  have  come." 

"Not  me.     I  stay  at  home  and  discover  masterpieces." 

"Oh,  you  do,  do  you,  my  young  friend.  By  the  way,  what 
kind  of  a  time  did  you  have  in  Tupton?" 


CHRISTIAN  MARTYR  OF  "THE  COLOSSEUM" 

"Great.     Met  a  wonderful  person." 

"What's  her  name?" 

"Not  so  fast,  old  leather-f ace !  Not  so  fast!  Don't  culti 
vate  that  stage  humour." 

"Well,  what  was  it?" 

Slade  was  standing  in  the  doorway  of  Raf  e's  room  emerg 
ing  from  the  shirt  that  now  lay  across  his  arms. 

"You  ruffian!"  was  all  he  would  answer.  His  grin  was 
large  and  bland. 

"You're  too  young,  Slade,"  said  Rafe  from  the  alcove, 
foamily  toothbrushing.  His  tousled  head  stuck  out  to  scan 
his  room-mate.  "You're  too  pitifully  young,  kid.  My 
Gawd,  you  need  me  along  all  the  time.  Who  have  you  fallen 
for  now?" 

"Cut  it,"  said  Slade.  "I  told  you  this  was  a  wonderful 
woman." 

He  walked  over  to  Rafe's  bureau  and  stood  before  the 
glass  with  one  hand  negligently  upon  his  hip. 

Rafe  spluttered  a  laugh.  "You  did  not.  Wonderful  per 
son  was  what  you  said.  Oh,  la  la  la!  They  all  flop  some 
day!" 

"What  the  hell  do  you  mean?"  asked  Slade  with  a  great 
pretense  of  wrath. 

"Who?    Me?    My  brand  of  light  persiflage." 

"Well,  you're  a  damned  old  fool,  Rafe.  You  ought  to 
have  seen  her." 

"Sally  is  all  I  want  to  see,"  returned  Rafe.  "Sally,"  he 
yelled  suddenly,  seizing  a  chair  with  which  he  began  to  pivot 
about  the  room.  "Sally,  I  adore  you!  God,  you  ought  to 
see  that  girl  one-step!" 

"Don't  be  an  ass,"  said  Slade.  "You  poor  fish.  I  suppose 
you  actually  think  you're  in  love!" 

With  vast  superiority  he  entered  his  own  room,  "doused" 
(as  he  always  expressed  it)  "the  glim",  and,  after  throwing 
the  manuscripts  in  the  general  direction  of  the  table,  com 
posed  himself  for  slumber. 

"So  she's  a  wonder,  is  she,"  remarked  Rafe  in  a  loud  con- 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

versational  tone  from  his  own  couch,  its  gaudy  cover  now 
sprawling  on  the  floor.  He  sat  up,  grinning  at  the  wall  be 
tween  his  room  and  Slade's.  Histrionically  he  raised  one 
hand  to  his  ear  to  listen. 

But  there  was  no  answer  to  his  query,  save  a  very  bogus 
snore. 


CHAPTER  XIII:  MS.  BY  ANON. 

THE  first  thing  Slade  did  next  morning  at  the  office  was 
to  make  a  thorough  search  through  all  his  papers  for 
one  of  those  stamped,  self-addressed  envelopes  usually  in 
closed  by  contributors.  It  refused  to  turn  up.  His  ques 
tioning  resulted  in  nothing.  After  he  had  described  to  her 
the  nature  of  the  manuscript,  Miss  Peabody  became  inter 
ested.  Between  them  they  had  the  editorial  rooms  ransacked. 
No  luck.  Slade  took  the  manuscript  in  to  the  Editor-in- 
Chief,  in  one  of  the  latter's  spare  moments  unconferential, 
and  said  what  he  thought  of  its  excellence.  He  was  so  press 
ing  that  he  actually  left  that  notability  reading  it.  Fifteen 
minutes  later  the  Chief  emerged  excitably  from  his  sanctum 
and  came  over  to  Slade's  desk  fluttering  the  typewritten 
sheets.  "Accepted,  Breckinridge,"  he  called,  in  his  voice  so 
singularly  boyish  when  contrasted  with  his  somewhat  elderly 
features.  "This  is  excellent.  I- 

"Hold  on,  sir,"  said  Slade.  "We  can't  find  any  trace  of 
who  wrote  it."  He  explained  in  detail. 

The  Editor-in-Chief  immediately  had  a  second  search  in 
stituted  which  covered  exactly  the  same  ground  as  the  first, 
to  the  harassment  of  several  underlings.  It  was,  of  course, 
unsuccessful.  Manuscripts  coming  to  The  Colosseum  were 
entered  on  cards  upon  their  return  or  acceptance.  For  this 
reason  there  was  as  yet  no  card  for  "The  Crystal  Castle" — 
and  no  sign  of  a  return  envelope  anywhere. 

"Well,  we  shall  just  have  to  wait  till  the  author  comes  in. 
He's  sure  to.  You  hold  it,  Breckinridge.  I  might  be  able 
to  put  a  note  at  the  end  of  the  editorial  section  of  the  August 
number  about  the  author  communicating  with  us  to  hear 
something  to  his  advantage.  But  no,  we'd  better  wait — the 

125 


126         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

author  is  sure  to  inquire,  and,  after  all,  there's  no  great 
hurry.  A  fine  piece  of  work,  though!" 

The  impeccably-dressed  Art  Editor  stood  at  that  moment 
at  the  Chief's  elbow.  In  his  hand  was  a  large  drawing. 
Hovering  in  the  background,  its  creator  waited  to  be  intro 
duced,  noting  with  some  hidden  amusement  the  dignified 
eccentricity  of  appearance  peculiar  to  the  widely-known  Bar- 
rington  Tudor  Brush— "Old  Toothbrush"  or  "Old  T.  B.", 
as  he  was  flippantly  referred  to  in  many  unconscionable 
studios. 

Brush  was  an  editor  of  the  old  school,  an  essayist  of  al 
most  overpowering  urbanity,  an  executive  of  great  moral 
earnestness.  To  him  the  ancient  routine  of  the  Colosseum 
was  invested  with  a  sacred  character.  It  had  been  with  the 
greatest  difficulty  that  Slade  had  finally  prevailed  upon  him 
to  install  a  card-filing  system  in  place  of  the  previous  un 
wieldy  ledger-method  of  entering  and  keeping  track  of 
manuscripts.  The  first  assault  upon  this  holy  institution  had 
resulted  merely  in  long  impressive  soliloquies  in  which  the 
immediate  topic  was  expanded  to  the  proportions  of  a 
fatherly  lecture  upon  Slade's  evidently  radical  sympathies  in 
art,  politics  and  sociology.  Barrington  Tudor  Brush's  face 
was  set  like  flint  (he  said)  against  the  increasing  Lawless 
ness  of  the  present  day.  Lawlessness  was  a  favourite  word 
upon  his  lip.  Manners  was  another.  He  deprecated  th£  de 
cline  of  Manners.  Somehow  the  idea  of  a  card-index  system 
at  first  filled  his  mind  with  earnest  fears  for  the  insidious 
penetration  of  Goth  and  Vandal  into  the  high  and  austere 
citadel  of  the  Colosseum. 

It  took  a  little  time  to  work  him  round  from  this  attitude. 
It  took  a  deal  of  diplomacy  to  keep  him  to  the  single  point. 
He  had  to  be  diverted  from  strayings-off  into  indictments  of 
Nietzche  and  irritated  slaps  at  Socialism.  With  finger  and 
thumb  tips  pressed  lightly  together,  leaning  back  in  his 
leather-cushioned  swivel-chair,  his  heavy  reddish-gray  mus 
tache  fluffed  out  at  the  calf-bound  works  of  James  Russell 
Lowell  that  topped  the  high  old-fashioned  desk  in  the  corner 


MS.  BY  ANON.  127 

of  his  sanctum,  he  would  round  and  polish  his  periods  with 
precise  delight  in  the  sound  of  his  musically  mellow  voice. 
Slade  found  this  particularly  hard  to  bear  whenever  he  re 
ceived  a  summons  to  hastily  review  the  merits  of  such  manu 
scripts  as  he  had  reserved  through  the  day  as  valuable 
enough  for  the  editorial  eye.  Coming  in  promptly  and  sit 
ting  down  promptly  with  a  wire  basket  in  your  lap  and  brief 
but  descriptive  comments  well- formulated  in  your  mind, 
seemed  to  accomplish  little. 

"This  article  on  the  court  of  an  Indian  Maharajah/*  Slade 
might  begin,  "doesn't  seem  to  me  particularly  well  written, 

and "  But  the  word  India  was  enough.  There  would 

follow  a  long  and  impressive  discourse  upon  the  Taj  Mahal. 

"Old  T.  B."  was  interesting  too.  That  was  the  deuce  of 
it.  His  memory  held  a  brilliant  accumulation  of  odd  infor 
mation,  splendid  material  with  which  to  make  essays  allusive 
and  scholarly,  encumbering  mental  lumber,  however,  so  far 
as  the  egress  of  prompt,  time-saving  decisions  was  con 
cerned.  And  yet  the  prime  necessity  of  such  decisions  was 
a  point  constantly  stressed. 

"Save  me  time,  Breckinridge.  Editorial  time  is  valuable. 
Give  me  that  in  a  nutshell.  Now — let's  have  it!" 

But,  when  he  had  it  (Slade  often  thought)  he  didn't  know 
what  to  do  with  it. 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  read  all  those  myself. 
Get  Miss  Paxton  to  put  them  in  my  brief-case.  A  dog's 
life,  Breckinridge,  a  dog's  life.  This  multiplicity  of  manu 
scripts.  No  way  that  an  editor  can  shift  responsibility.  Yes, 
well,  suppose  you  return  those  poems.  Is  that  all?" 

And  Barrington  Tudor  Brush  was  a  stickler  for  little 
amenities  in  the  office.  "Always  a  good  morning  to  every 
one,"  he  would  enunciate  distinctly.  "We  must  always  pre 
serve  the  greatest  punctilio  toward  our  feminine  assistants. 
The  most  complete  courtesy  in  office  relationships  is  indis 
pensable.  Manners  makyth  man." 

Perhaps  the  next  moment  the  official  buzzer  would  rasp 
frantically  in  outer  limbo.  "Oh,  Lord,"  Mrs.  Swan  would 


128         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

moan,  rising  from  her  cluttered  desk,  "there  he  is  again!" 

He  was  a  very  nervous  man,  Barrington  Brush.  She 
would  find  him  searchingly  wildly  upon  his  editorial  table. 
"The  shears,  Mrs.  Swan,"  he  would  ejaculate.  "This  has 
happened  before.  Someone  is  always  taking  my  shears.  .  .  . 
The  memorandum  for  Mr.  Aquamarine.  Where  is  that  mem 
orandum?" 

He  had  his  periods  of  jocularity.  They  showed  him  sud 
denly,  incredibly  boyish,  erupting  with  classical  quotation 
and  absent-minded  chuckles. 

He  had  a  special  small  yellow  pad  upon  which,  day  and 
night,  he  scribbled  important  memoranda  addressed  hap 
hazard  to  any  member  of  the  office  force  upon  any  subject 
that  happened  to  occur  to  him.  These  oracular  leaves  in 
pestilence-stricken  multitudes  fluttered  about  the  ears  of  the 
outer  office  every  day.  Their  injunctions  were,  however, 
completely  forgotten  as  soon  as  written.  Reference  to  them 
afterward  evoked  only  a  wild-eyed  stare  and  then  a  wholly 
vague  "Quite  right,  quite  right!"  Mrs.  Swan  had  a  private 
collection  of  these  memorabilia  in  a  japanned  tin  box.  She 
took  them  out  and  read  them  over  whenever  she  felt  de 
pressed.  She  had  ceased  paying  the  slightest  attention  to 
them  some  years  before. 

Brush  was  a  man  in  hfs  middle  fifties,  with  nearsighted 
blue  eyes  behind  strong-lensed  gold-rimmed  glasses.  He 
was  moon-faced,  bald,  and  pink  of  complexion.  He  usually 
came  to  the  office  in  a  cutaway,  on  special  occasions  in  a 
frock-coat.  He  was  short,  but  held  himself  erect,  and 
walked  with  an  absent-minded  scuffing  step.  He  was  al 
ways  cleanly  shaved  save  for  the  predominant  reddish-grey 
mustache.  He  was  much  seen  in  quasi-literary  society.  He 
was  fundamentally  highly  benevolent,  and  drawled. 

Slade  had  grown  genuinely  fond  of  him,  despite  his  pe 
culiarities,  rather  because  of  them.  Brush  was  rarely  iras 
cible,  though  frequently  plaintive.  He  strove  to  consider 
and  aid  his  subordinates.  His  editorial  standards  were  of  a 
high  integrity,  if  of  a  strict,  old-fashioned  classicism.  Miss 


MS.  BY  ANON.  129 

Peabody,  with  her  fine  taste  but  far  more  open  mind,  had 
proved  a  good  influence  upon  him.  She  often  had  her  own 
way  in  spite  of  him.  In  the  present  instance,  "The  Crystal 
Castle"  had  succeeded  miraculously.  Never  before  in 
Slade's  experience  had  a  manuscript  of  his  own  unhesitating 
choice  been  so  quickly  approved  also  by  the  editorial  judg 
ment.  And  this  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  there  were  several 
passages  in  it  Slade  had  feared 

Now  he  took  it  over  to  Miss  Peabody's  desk  and  stood 
holding  it  aloft  as  if  in  offering  to  the  gods. 

"A  miracle,"  he  said  quizzically.     "Behold  a  miracle!" 

"What?"  She  looked  up  with  clever  brown  eyes  and  the 
faint  one-sided  smile  with  which  she  always  greeted  her 
friends. 

"T.  B.  likes  this  and  so  do  I.  Awfully.  Ever  know  us  to 
agree  before?" 

"Never.  But  I've  been  eavesdropping  the  loud  editorial 
'Yea!'  So  it's  good,  is  it?" 

"I  hope  you'll  think  so.    I  tremble." 

"Well,  this  thing  I'm  reading  is  utterly  atrocious.  Be 
sides,  the  anonymity  charms  me.  I'll  read  it  right  away." 

"Isn't  it  good !"  she  called  across  to  him  a  moment  or  so 
later. 

"Isn't  it!"  returned  Slade.    "Finished  it?" 

"Not  yet.     Wait  a  minute." 

When  she  had,  she  arose  crisply  and  brought  it  over  to 
his  desk. 

"It's  darn  good,"  said  Miss  Peabody. 

At  that  moment  the  telephone  on  Slade's  desk  rang 
sharply. 

He  nodded  and  grinned  at  Miss  Peabody  as  he  disen 
tangled  the  receiver-cord. 

"Hello.    Yeah,  this  is  Breckinridge.    Oh,  hello,  Lin!" 

"Yeah.     Sure  can.    What  time?" 

"Who?" 

"How  do  you  spell  it?" 

«<Y'— not  T?    Oh,  I  see.    How  quaint!" 


130         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Sure  I'd  like  to  meet  him.  Sure,  I'm  supercilious.  This 
is  the  Colosseum,  isn't  it?" 

"Twelve-thirty?    Right.    I'll  be  there." 

"Yeah.     G'-bye." 

*  *  * 

Slade  entered  the  Players'  an  hour  later.  "Mr.  Jessup," 
he  said,  as  he  gave  his  straw  hat  to  the  rubicund  mulberry- 
uniformed  attendant.  He  looked  down  into  the  billiard  room 
where  smoke  drifted  and  ivory  clicked,  and  up  the  short 
stretch  of  stair  to  the  main  floor.  Lin  Jessup,  thin,  sallow- 
faced,  hawk-eyed,  his  height  of  brow  exaggerated  by  the 
fact  that  his  sandy  hair  had  receded  from  above  his  temples, 
came  gangling  down  the  few  brass-treaded  steps  and  shook 
his  hand  in  a  large  loose  grasp. 

"Come  up,  fellow.    I  want  you  to  meet  this  man  Coryat." 

A  little  later  they  were  seating  themselves  at  a  table  on 
the  rear  veranda,  overlooking  the  inclosed  court,  having  tra 
versed  the  main  room  with  its  big  leather  lounge  and,  pass 
ing  between  glass  cases  of  thespian  relics,  the  shadowy  din 
ing-room  where  a  few  lunching  groups  gave  them  curious 
casual  glances. 

Slade  thought  Coryat  interesting  looking.  He  liked  his 
lean  brown  face  and  the  tilt  of  his  nose.  His  green-blue  eyes 
seemed  cognizant  of  everything.  His  sandy  mustache  gave 
his  face  an  indescribably  foreign  touch.  Beside  him  Jessup 
looked,  as  Slade  put  it  to  himself,  "as  yellow  as  a  lemon", 
and  his  lanky,  loose-jointed  body  unusually  awkward.  Cor 
yat  sat  up  with  nervous  erectness,  crumbling  bread,  Jessup 
hunched  over  the  table,  head  sunk  between  narrow  shoulders, 
chin  stuck  out. 

"What'll  you  have,  Coryat?  I'll  have  the  cold  consomme 
and  then  the  fish,"  he  said  to  the  waiter. 

"Coryat's  been  doing  some  articles  for  us,"  Jessup  ex 
plained.  "We  publish  the  first  one  next  week.  He  thinks 
the  Colosseum  might  be  interested  in  a  couple  on  another 
phase  of  the  European  situation.  It's  this — well,  you  ex 
plain,  Coryat." 


MS.  BY  ANON.  131 

Richard  began  to  do  so.  All  three  proceeded  with  their 
meal.  In  half  an  hour  Slade  was  in  possession  of  the  whole 
idea  and  had  promised  to  take  it  up  with  Mr.  Brush  and 
arrange  to  have  Coryat  come  in  and  discuss  it  with  him. 
After  their  coffee  they  wandered  back  into  the  main  room 
and  found  seats  on  the  big  leather  lounge  that  faced  the 
fireplace.  Jessup  was  called  away  to  the  telephone. 

He  returned  a  moment  later.  "I'm  sorry.  I  have  to  go 
uptown.  Don't  you  men  hurry.  Why  don't  you  sit  around 
a  while?  Hate  to  rush  off  this  way,  but  I've  got  to." 

"I'm  sorry  too.  Maybe  we  will  sit — for  just  a  few 
minutes,"  said  Slade.  "So  long.  Thank  you  a  lot,  Lin." 
Coryat  also  made  his  adieus.  "How  did  it  come  out?"  asked 
Slade,  as  they  reseated  themselves.  He  had  been  listening 
to  a  war  reminiscence.  Coryat  completed  it. 

"Yes,  that  was  queer,"  said  Slade. 

"Speaking  of  anonymity,  though,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
second,  "we've  just  had  a  case  at  the  office.  And  I  happen 
to  have  the  evidence — with  me  now."  His  left  hand  went 
inside  his  coat.  "I  brought  it  over,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
thinking  it  would  interest  Lin.  Then  I  got  so  interested  in 

what  you  were  talking  about Here  it  is.    Careful  of  it 

— we  think  it's  valuable.  A  remarkable  story.  Came  in  the 
other  day  without  the  slightest  identification  on  it.  We're 
holding  it  until  the  author  remembers  that  fact  or  gets  tired 
of  waiting  for  us  to  return  it,  and  comes  in." 

"Mind  if  I  look  at  it?"  asked  Coryat. 

"Not  at  all.  I'd  like  you  to.  By  the  way — but  no,  I  sup 
pose  that  would  be  a  bore.  Only  it  is  quite  remarkable." 

"What?    Want  me  to  read  it ?    Now?" 

"Would  you?  I'd  really  like  an  outside  opinion  on  it. 
Sure  it  won't  bore  you?" 

"Not  a  bit.    Give  me  a  minute  or  two." 

He  took  ten. 

Slade  sat  and  smoked. 

"Well,  I'll  be  jiggered,"  remarked  Coryat,  softly. 

"What?" 


132          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Wait  a  minute.    This  is  queer." 

He  finished   the   story   rapidly,   muttering   unintelligibly 
every  now  and  then. 

He  looked  up  and  handed  back  the  manuscript. 
"I  know  the  author,"  said  Coryat  simply. 
"You  do?    How  do  you?    Who  is  it?" 
"It's  a  man  named  Terrill.     He  wrote  only  one  book  I 
know  of,  'Golden  Windfall'.     It  was  published  in  England. 
It's  very  rare.     In  my  opinion  he's  an  undiscovered  genius. 
I've  tried  to  trace  some  facts  about  him,  but  I  could  find  out 
precious  little.     His  book  was  brought  out  by  a  small  Lon 
don  firm  that  failed  soon  after.    It  got  practically  no  notices. 
I  talked  to  several  critics  in  London  about  him  last  year. 
They'd  never  heard  of  him  or  of  the  book.    I  lent  them  the 
book.     One  of  them,  old  De  Sayyes,  got  really  interested. 
He  did  some  sleuthing.     But  one  partner  of  the  firm  that 
had  brought  out  the  book  was   dead   and  the  other  was 
somewhere  in  Europe.    None  of  those  I  interested  could  find 
out  anything  definite.    The  first  and  only  edition  of  the  book 
was  small,  and  the  remainders  must  be  widely  scattered.    De 
Sayyes  said  something  about  it  in  his  page  in  The  London 
Weekly,  but  nothing  has  turned  up  yet.     I'm  hoping  to  get 
someone  over  here  interested.     We  think  the  author  died 
some  years  ago.    At  least,  he's  never  appeared  in  literature 
again.      But   this   manuscript — why,   the   man   had   an   ab 
solutely  individual  style.    I  could  tell  his  fine  Italian  hand  in 
the  dark.     This  seems  to  me  unmistakable.     I  could  show 
you — if  I  had  the  book." 

"Thought  you  said  you  did  have  it?" 

"Silly  of  me  perhaps 1  lent  my  only  copy  to — to — a 

friend  of  mine.     I'll  have  to  wait  till  it's  returned." 
"You're  sure — are  you?" 

"About  who  wrote  this  ?  Oh,  I'm  certain  I  couldn't  mis 
take  the  style.  It's  as  unmistakable  as — as — Chesterton  or 
—or  Thomas  Carlyle." 

"Somebody  imitating — but  that  doesn't  seem  reasonable 


MS.  BY  ANON.  133 

either,  does  it — with  the  writer  absolutely  unknown  over 
here." 

"Oh,  Lord,  no "  Coryat  stopped.  His  mouth  remained 

slightly  open,  his  brow  wrinkled. 

"What?" 

Coryat's  lips  closed.    "Oh,  nothing.'* 

"No,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  don't  believe  anyone  could  imi 
tate  Terrill  as  well  as  that.  Even  if  it  were  a  good  imitation 
I  think  I'd  know  it.  I've  lived  with  his  book  too  long.  It's 
sui  generis.  But  I'll  swear  he  wrote  this  story.  I'll  swear 
it.  The  point  is — to  find  him." 

"Well  this  is  certainly  darned  interesting,"  said  Slade. 
"I'll  have  to  tell  old  T.  B.  But  surely,  if  it  is  this  man  Ter 
rill,  he'll  eventually  turn  up  for  his  manuscript.  Now,  look 
here — will  you  give  me  his  full  name  again  and  the  name  of 
his  book?" 

"Richard  Terrill,"  began  Coryat  slowly,  "Golden  Wind 
fall " 

*  *  * 

It  was  a  number  of  days  before  Slade  saw  Richard  again. 
In  the  meanwhile,  between  cogitations  about  the  mysterious 
Richard  Terrill,  his  thoughts  recurred  quite  regularly  to 
Adela  Ventress.  He  had  only  seen  her  twice,  but  he  found 
that  he  missed  seeing  her.  There  were  amusing  incidents 
arising  out  of  his  daily  editorial  toil  and  nightly  jaunts 
around  the  Village  with  Rafe  that  he  found  he  wanted  to 
share  with  her.  There  was  the  incident  of  the  anarchist  in 
the  crumpet-shop  on  Christopher  Street,  there  was  the  in 
cident  of  Mr.  Spofford,  the  Associate  Editor's  falling  asleep 
in  his  chair  and  sliding  under  his  desk  at  three  o'clock  of  a 
rainy  afternoon;  there  was  the  incident  of  the  three  small 
boys  and  the  baffled  sandwich-man,  which  had  amused  him 
one  morning  as  he  hurried  up  the  northwest  side  of  Union 
Square;  there  was — above  all — the  incident  of  the  Mysteri 
ous  Manuscript.  But  there  was  no  excuse  for  writing  Mrs. 
Ventress,  at  least  no  proper  excuse  that  he  could  think  of. 


134          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

And,  after  all,  why  should  he  want  to  write  to  her?    Oh,  I 
don't  know ! 

Slade  had  retailed  to  the  impressed  Harrington  Tudor 
Brush  all  that  Richard  Coryat  had  vouchsafed  about  the 
author  named  Richard  Terrill.  Brush  had  called  up  several 
rare  book  dealers  and  collectors  of  his  acquaintance,  and  the 
New  York  Public  Library.  The  only  thing  he  discovered 
was,  from  the  New  York  Public  Library,  after  some  research, 
the  name  of  the  original  publishers  of  the  book — which  Cor 
yat  had  already  communicated  to  Slade.  The  New  York 
Public  Library  had  no  copy.  Brush  dictated  several  polite 
and  affable  communications  of  generous  proportions  to  emi 
nent  literary  friends  in  England.  With  properly  dignified  cir 
cumlocution  he  approached  them  for  any  possible  knowledge 
they  might  have  of  the  book.  These  letters  were  duly  typed, 
signed  and  dispatched,  after  having  been  transferred  by  im 
print  into  the  ancient  blotter  letter-books  of  the  "Colos 
seum",  amid  whose  undecipherable  tissue  sheets  it  had 
grown  utterly  impossible  to  find  any  given  communication  at 
any  given  time  in  any  such  state  of  preservation  as  could 
render  it  useful  for  reference. 

As  for  the  mysterious  manuscript,  it  was  locked  in  the 
safe.  Coryat  kept  the  appointment  Slade  had  made  for  him 
with  Barrington  Tudor  Brush.  He  emerged  slightly  pale  be 
neath  his  tan,  after  a  protracted  interview.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  to  submit  a  first  article,  and  he  had  impressed  the  Edi 
tor-in-Chief  with  the  potential  value  of  his  own  work  and 
the  indubitable  value  of  that  of  Richard  Terrill — whoever  he 
was.  Not  to  speak  of  the  interesting  mystery  of  the  latter. 

Meanwhile,  as  has  been  noted,  Mrs.  Ventress  recurred. 
She  remained  like  the  memory  of  a  familiar  tune  somewhere 
in  the  back  of  Slade's  brain.  Once  or  twice,  out  of  a  blank 
day-dreaming,  a  startlingly  photographic  image  of  her  would 
amaze  his  mind.  Bending  over  the  lobelia  in  her  garden, 
standing  on  the  steps  of  Uncle  Arthur's  back  porch  pointing 
at  the  moon.  Slade  began  to  plan  another  visit  to  Tupton. 


CHAPTER  XIV:    CORYAT  CAN'T  REMEMBER 

A  WEEK  had  passed  when  Coryat  called  Slade  on  the 
'phone. 

"Can't  you  have  dinner  with  me  tonight?  You  live  down 
in  the  Village,  don't  you?  By  the  way,  what  luck  about 
Terrill— any?" 

"Sure;  that'll  be  fine,"  Slade  answered  the  first  question. 
"Terrill  ?  No.  The  mysterious  author  hasn't  turned  up  yet. 
Still,  you  know,  it  hasn't  been  so  long.  How  about  Chris-1 
tine's?  Ever  been  there?  Let  this  be  my  party.  I'll  see  if 
I  can  get  my  room-mate  to  come  along,  can  I  ?  Like  you  to 
meet  him.  What  time  do  you  say  ?" 

As  certain  exigencies  of  make-up  would  keep  him  late 
that  day  at  the  office,  he  agreed  to  join  Coryat  at  his  Gram- 
ercy  Park  apartment  about  6:30.  Meantime,  he  'phoned 
Rafe  and  found  that  "demon  of  advertising"  had  a  date  with 
Sally  Pasquale  for  dinner  at  The  Black  Cat.  Sorry  he 
couldn't  join  them.  Like  to  meet  this  fellow.  What's  his 
name  ?  Oh,  yes,  you  told  me.  What  are  you  up  to  ?  Going 
to  sleuth  the  author  of  the  "Crystal  Castle"  ?  Hope  you  find 
him.  Ask  him  if  he  can  write  good  copy  for  air  brakes,  if 
you  do.  I  can't.  Want  to  hear  about  the  Swenson  Axle? 
No?  Want  to  hear  about  Rubbitonya  the  Tony  Talcum? 
No?  Well,  well,  well,  what  do  you  want  to  know,  young 
fella?  After  several  normally  gratuitous  insults,  exchanged 
in  genuine  affection,  Slade  snicked  the  receiver  back,  grin 
ning. 

About  seven  o'clock  he  piloted  Coryat  down  MacDougall 
Street  and  they  climbed  the  steep,  gloomy  stairway,  from  the 
equally  gloomy  doorway  next  the  livery-stable  theatre  of  the 
Provincetown  Players.  The  door  above  was  opened  on 

135 


136          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

smoke  and  noisy  chatter.  The  long  tables  nearest  held  ban 
tering  groups  of  oddly  assorted  habitues  of  the  Village. 
"Momma"  presided  with  her  usual  abundant  good-nature. 
You  helped  yourself  to  stew  and  bread-and-butter  and  cof 
fee.  Slade  spoke  to  several  acquaintances.  He  procured 
the  necessary  viands  for  Coryat  and  himself.  Threading 
their  way  through  the  intensely  conversational  diners,  they 
found  a  blue-painted  table  for  two  near  the  front  of  the 
room,  under  posters  of  the  Barbarian's  Ball  and  Harry 
Kemp's  Minetta  Lane  Theatre.  They  began  to  eat  and  talk. 

The  conversation  drifted  to  the  unfair  sex  finally.  It 
usually  does.  Though  Slade  was  some  ten  years  younger 
than  Richard  Coryat,  they  met  upon  fairly  equal  terms  until 
they  touched  this  topic.  Coryat  was  not  the  type  desirous 
of  impressing  people  with  his  experiences  in  knocking 
around  the  world.  He  simply  retailed  the  most  interesting 
of  them  quite  naturally,  with  amusing  comment.  Slade  had 
grown,  through  his  magazine  experience,  to  be  a  good  lis 
tener.  He  was  also  well-read  and  well-informed.  The 
questions  he  asked,  the  interpolations  he  made,  were  to  the 
point.  He  too  was  interesting  as  well  as  interested.  But  he 
brought  up  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Ventress  rather  naively. 

"I  met  a  remarkable  woman  on  my  vacation — Fourth  of 
July,"  he  said  so  seriously,  digging  his  cigarette  butt  into 
the  china  saucer  of  his  cup,  and  frowning  with  such  gravity 
that  Coryat  had  to  check  a  twitch  of  the  lips.  "A  remarkable 
woman,"  he  repeated,  raising  his  head  and  staring  at  the 
opposite  wall.  In  an  older  man  the  statement  would  have 
been  accepted  with  the  proper  serious  interest  usual  between 
acquaintances,  but  the  thought  and  feeling  working  in  Slade 
suddenly  showed  through  his  eyes  in  worshipping  youthful- 
ness.  As  suddenly  something  appealing  about  it  touched 
Coryat  and  he  kicked  himself  inwardly  for  his  desire  to 
laugh.  After  all,  he  remembered  Jane. 

"Who  was  she?"  he  asked  gravely  enough. 

"That's  a  mystery  too — rather,"  said  Slade,  still  staring 
at  the  wall.  "No  one  in  Tupton — this  town  where  my 


CORYAT  CAN'T  REMEMBER  137 

Uncle  lives — seems  to  know  exactly  who  she  is.     She  used 
to  live  in  New  York.     She's  come  out  there  for  the  sum 


mer 

Coryat's  eyes  roved  from  corner  to  corner  of  the  low  ceil 
ing  in  sudden  thought. 

"What's  her  name?"  he  asked. 

Their  eyes  met. 

"Why — why  it's — she's  a  Mrs.  Ventress.  I  believe  her  full 
name's  Adela  Ventress.  You  don't  know  her,  do  you?" 

"No,  not  at  all,"  Coryat  shook  his  head.  "Never  heard  of 
her." 

"Do  you  know  anyone  in  Tupton?  I  didn't  know  you 
did." 

"I  don't.    Just  a  thought.     Go  on." 

"There's  some  woman  on  his  mind.  That's  certain," 
thought  Slade. 

"Look  here,  don't  think  me  impertinent,  but  you  sound  as 
if  you  were — oh,  well — never  mind.  Excuse  me,"  he  said 
aloud. 

"As  if  I  were— what?"  Coryat  had  flushed  a  little.  But 
he  was  smiling. 

"Oh,  no.    Only  that's  the  second  time." 

"Second  time  what?    What  do  you  mean?" 

Still  he  was  smiling. 

"Oh,  I  was  going  to  say  second  time  you've  been  specu 
lating  about  somebody.  But  I'm  sorry.  None  of  my  busi 
ness." 

Richard  laughed,  though  his  colour  had  slightly  deepened. 

"No  I'm  not.    Well  it  is No,  indeed  I'm  not." 

His  laugh  was  just  a  trifle  forced.  It  was  he,  now,  who 
looked  boyish.  But  the  man-of-the-world  expression  re 
turned  almost  immediately.  With  the  colour  a  certain  light 
seemed  to  fade  from  his  face. 

"Always  think  I  might  know  people.  I've  knocked  around 
so  much.  That's  all.  Go  on." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Slade.     "Nothing  much." 

He  too  had  withdrawn  into  his  shell. 


138          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Fine  woman,  that's  all.  She's  teaching  my  young  cousin 
drawing.  I  was  rather  impressed  by  her."  This  last  with 
the  transparent  disinterest  affected  by  youth.  "I've  just  been 
wondering  what  her  story  could  be,  that's  all.  You  know 
how  you  meet — well,  interesting  people." 

Coryat  guarded  his  voice.  And  then  he  too  was  thinking 
of  an  interesting  woman  he  had  met — oh,  very ! 

"I  know,"  he  said.  He  thought  of  speaking  of  Flora ;  and 

then  he  thought  he  wouldn't.  Nice  kid,  Slade,  but  still 

He  was  continually  wondering  these  days  where  the  deuce 
Flora  Iwd  gone.  He  had  even  inquired  by  telephone  of  her 
publishers.  If  they  knew  they  were  not  giving  out  her  ad 
dress.  They  must  know,  but  evidently  had  their  instruc 
tions.  He  did  not  feel  that  he  ought  to  pursue  the  matter. 

"Very  beautiful,  though,"  said  Slade  absently,  and  startled 
him.  The  very  words  had  been  in  his  mind.  It  irritated 
him  too,  slightly.  Here  he  was  mooning  exactly  like  this 
boy. 

"Very  beautiful,"  murmured  Slade  to  himself,  sipping 
his  coffee.  "Oh,  well,"  he  looked  up  with  an  entirely  charm 
ing  expression.  "The  devil,  aren't  they?" 

"What? — women?"  returned  Coryat,  entirely  disarmed, 
highly  amused.  "Yes,  my  son,  they're  very  likely  to  prove 
so." 

"Yes,  I  guess  so,"  contributed  Slade  with  a  certain  non 
chalance.  "But,  by  golly,  I've  got  to  see  her  again!" 

He  sat  inhaling  his  Fatima.  His  smile  was  saved  from 
fatuousness  by  his  youth.  Coryat  laughed  openly  now  and 
Slade  joined  him,  a  trifle  ruefully.  "Oh,  well,"  he  remarked 
detachedly,  "you  must  think  me  an  awful  ass." 

"No,"  returned  Coryat,  considering.  "On  the  whole  I 
don't.  There  have  been  times,"  he  added,  with  amusement 
in  his  eyes  and  voice,  "when  I've  felt  that  way  myself." 

His  face  relapsed  into  seriousness.  It  seemed  older.  His 
eyes  strayed  over  the  cutlery-clinking  groups  about  them. 

"We-el,"  he  said  slowly,  "you  think  I'm  speculating  about 
somebody.  I  am.  About  several  people,  in  fact.  No,  it's 


CORYAT  CANT  REMEMBER  139 

not  you  (he  answered  Slade's  eyes).  Some  day  I  might  tell 
you  my  story.  You  say  you  wonder  what  your  new  friend's 
is.  Her  name  was  —  why,  good  Lord,  just  what  did  you  say 
her  name  was?" 

To  tell  the  truth  he  surprised  himself  quite  as  much  as  he 
did  Slade.  A  memory  had  suddenly  clicked  into  place,  in 
the  eerie  way  of  memories.  It  seemed  preposterous  of  him 
to  have  forgotten  that  name. 

"Gosh,"  said  Slade  with  round  eyes,  "That  is  funny  of 
you.  It  was  Ventress.  Adela  Ventress." 

"How  do  you  spell  it?" 

"Why,  V-e-n-t-r-e-double-s,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"Is  it?    Isn't  it?    Do  you  know,  I  don't  really  remember!" 

Richard  Coryat  was  undoubtedly  looking  queer. 

"To  —  think  —  that  /  don't  really  remember,"  he  repeated, 
his  chin  cupped  in  his  hands.  He  sank  his  forehead  for  a 
moment  between  them,  his  hands  ruffling  his  hair. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?  What  is  it?  I'm  all  at  sea,  old  man. 
What's  up?" 

Slade  was  concerned.  Coryat  raised  strange  absent-look 
ing  eyes,  staring  at  him. 

"No.  I  —  can't  —  remember,"  he  said  slowly,  shaking  his 
head.  "Ventress.  Ventress.  PFa.y  it  that  ?  Ventress.  Ven 


"I'm  awfully  sorry  if  I  -  "  began  Slade.  Then,  as  sud 
denly  as  the  fit  had  fallen,  his  companion  resumed  com 
posure. 

"No.  Oh,  no  !  That's  all  right,"  he  stated,  with  a  slight 
tremor  in  his  voice.  "I  was  just  trying  to  recall  something  — 
it's  that  I  once  knew  a  name  that  I  can't  quite  remember, 
that  must  have  been  something  like  that.  It's  a  long  time 
ago.  It  gets  so  mixed  up.  Good  heavens,  what  a  queer 
life!  No  —  of  course,  it  couldn't  have  anything  to  do  with 
that.  Nothing  at  all.  It  couldn't  possibly  have  any  connec 
tion." 

"I'm  just  thinking  aloud.  Don't  think  I'm  crazy,"  he 
added,  now  with  quite  a  normal  smile,  "It's  nothing  I  can  ex- 


140          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

plain,  but  there's  nothing  you  need  worry  about.  I've  been 
rather — oh,  well — sorry!  Shall  we  take  in  that  Province- 
town  place?" 

"Why,  yes — let's,"  returned  Slade  slowly.  He  was  still 
rather  bewildered  by  Coryat's  agitation,  and  his  poetic 
imagination  was  at  work.  Slade  was  an  ingrained  romantic. 
He  went  down  the  room  to  pay  "Momma",  while  Coryat 
followed. 

"You  certainly  do  make  a  fellow  curious,  though,"  said 
Slade,  as  they  began  descending  the  stairs  together.  "You 
gave  me  a  considerable  start." 

His  companion  put  his  head  back  and  expelled  air  from 
his  nostrils  sharply  with  a  slight  but  ironically  mirthful 
sound. 

"Too  bad.  I  suppose  I  must  have.  But  after  all,  I  haven't 
had  as  strange  a  life  as  you  might  imagine  from  that.  Still 
He  shrugged  decisively  and  changed  the  subject  to  a 
discussion  of  Eugene  O'Neill.  Next  door,  without  purchas 
ing  season  tickets,  they  managed  to  get  seats  for  the  several 
one-act  plays  then  running. 

"Look  here,"  said  Coryat,  as  they  parted  several  hours 
later  at  the  'bus  terminus  on  the  south  side  of  the  Square, 
the  writer  of  foreign  articles  having  declared  for  a  ride  home 
up  the  Avenue,  "look  here,  don't  think  of  me  as  a  man  of 
mystery  or  anything  like  that.  The  man  of  mystery  you 
want  is  this  man  Terrill.  Keep  me  informed  if  anything 
turns  up,  won't  you?" 

"I  certainly  will,"  said  Slade.  "I  certainly  will.  No  sign 
so  far.  But  I'm  going  to  try  to  get  another  week-end  at 
Tupton  sometime  soon.  I  need  a  complete  change,  don't  you 
think,"  he  laughed,  "from  all  these  peculiar  circumstances?" 

Coryat  smiled.    "Well,"  he  said,  "take  care  of  yourself." 

"Oh,"  said  Slade,  laughing  again,  "no  fear,  thank  you. 
You  ought  to  see  her  though.  She's  a  corker.  I've  talked 
rather  like  an  ass  I'm  afraid.  Well.  It's  been  a  fine  even 
ing.  Thanks  a  lot  for  your  company.  We  must  do  this 
again." 


CORYAT  CANT  REMEMBER 

"We  must,"  returned  Coryat,  swinging  up  on  the  frog- 
green  'bus.  "Good  night.  Good  luck!" 

*  *  * 

It  was  another  week,  the  twentieth  of  July,  to  be  exact, 
before  Slade  had  manoeuvred  old  T.  B.  into  a  position  to 
grant  him  a  week-end  off.  Letters  from  Slade's  parents, 
who  had  been  for  a  year  in  Nevada,  Slade's  father  being  a 
mining  engineer  of  some  prominence,  opportunely  assisted 
him.  They  contained  certain  affectionate  inquiries,  on  his 
mother's  part,  as  to  the  well-being  of  "your  Uncle  Charles", 
"your  Uncle  Arthur",  and  "little  Bessie".  His  father,  fur 
thermore,  wanted  to  know,  though  the  matter  was  not  pres 
sing,  if  Arthur  had  yet  tried  his,  Mr.  Breckinridge's,  pre 
scription  for  hay-fever,  and  whether  he  had  yet  made  up  his 
mind  to  visit  them  when  the  Breckinridges  returned  to  Long 
Island  thus  autumn. 

His  father  always  wrote  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  and 
his  letters  both  teased  and  amused  Slade.  They  invariably 
ended  with  the  words  "Your  respectable  father,"  above  a 
copperplate  signature.  This  terminology  was  a  pleasure  of 
long  standing  to  the  elder  Breckinridge.  Its  inception  had 
been  several  protracted  arguments  a  year  earlier  upon  the 
status  of  labour  and  the  future  of  modern  social  movements. 
Slade  was  rebellious  and  eager,  his  father  intelligent  but 
disillusioned.  "You  have  more  faith  in  human  nature  than 
I  have,  my  son."  His  father  had  managed  men  under  stress. 
Slade  had  not.  His  father's  mind  was  packed  with  practical 
instances,  historical  parallels.  Slade  fulminated  from  the 
latest  books  of  Bernard  Shaw,  H.  G.  Wells,  Thorstein  Veb- 
len,  and  from  articles  in  "The  New  Republic". 

Unfortunately  he  could  only  quote,  rather  patchily.  He 
did  not  possess  the  dialectical  power  of  the  authors  men 
tioned.  Against  them  his  father  quoted  Montaigne,  Gibbon, 
James  Bryce,  John  Stuart  Mill.  He  also  fell  back  on  W. 
H.  Mallock,  whose  sociology  Slade  derided  with  the  burning 
scorn  of  a  true  Shavian.  Nevertheless,  in  historical  purview, 
statistical  corroboration  and  the  concrete  instance,  Slade 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

came  off  badly.  But  the  force  of  his  insurgence  was  funda 
mentally  emotional  and,  though  he  were  beaten  in  argument, 

he  felt  that  his  father  was  wrong.  There  was  a  spirit ! 

He  opposed  a  fighting  optimism  and  abundant  energy  of 
imagination  to  his  father's  dry  experiences  of  the  working 
out  of  ambitious  schemes  in  the  hands  of  erring  humanity. 
It  was  the  eternal  antagonism  of  disillusioned  age  and  eleo- 
trically  potential  youth. 

They  had  sat  across  the  fireplace  from  each  other  in  the 
long,  low-ceilinged  Long  Island  library,  conversing  late  into 
the  night.  Slade  had  a  genuine  love  and  respect  for  his 
father.  This  tempered  the  asperity  of  some  of  their  more 
clashing  encounters.  His  father  had  a  sense  of  humour  and 
the  philosophic  cast  of  mind,  adumbrating  opinions  formed 
a  generation  earlier.  In  spite  of  his  decidedness  he  could 
conduct  long  arguments  in  the  abstract  without  recourse  to 
personalities.  They  usually  ended  by  differing  completely 
upon  every  main  point  at  issue  without,  however,  losing  in 
terest  in  each  other.  This  is  not  to  say  that  they  did  not 
sometimes  find  each  other  an  irritation  and  a  considerable 
trial.  But  they  agreed  to  differ.  Mr.  Breckinridge's  atti 
tude  toward  Slade's  future  was,  "Well,  you've  got  to  find 
out.  Go  and  see."  Meanwhile  he  accepted  in  jocular 
fashion  the  hypothesis  that  his  son  was  a  bomb-and-torch 
radical  and  he  himself  the  epitome  of  aristocratic  respecta 
bility.  Occasionally  he  sent  Slade  communications  written 
in  red  ink,  addressing  him  as  "Comrade"  and  referring  to 
startling  plots  brewing  against  the  "craven  capitalists".  Yet, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  whatever  exasperation  with  the  social 
order  Slade  evinced  he  inherited  direct  from  his  forebear, 
who  had  early  renounced  all  established  religion  and  had  al 
ways  ordered  his  own  life  according  to  the  demands  of  his 
own  nature. 

Mr.  Breckinridge  regarded  his  relations  and  his  wife's 
relations  with  a  tempered  amusement.  He  regarded  the 
human  spectacle  not  without  kindliness  but  with  a  keen 
appreciation  of  the  absurdity  of  many  conventions,  the  trivi- 


CORYAT  CANT  REMEMBER 

alty  of  human  aims,  a  delight  in  the  extraordinary  working- 
out  of  unanalysed  human  passions.  His  cool,  detached  tem 
perament  derived  much  sustenance  of  enjoyment  from  the 
antics  of  the  actors  in  the  human  comedy. 

Old  T.  B.,  thought  Slade,  might  have  irritated  the  elder 
Breckinridge,  but  he  would  have  been  sure  to  furnish  him 
taciturn  delight.  Slade  now  approached  his  Chief  in  the 
matter  of  a  short  leave  of  absence,  with  tact,  and,  it  must 
be  confessed,  a  quite  self-interested  appeal  to  the  really 
very  kindly  heart  of  Barrington  Tudor  Brush.  It  was  rep 
resented  that  there  were  certain  definite  commissions  that 
Slade  must  discharge  in  person  on  behalf  of  his  far-distant 
parents.  They  concerned  the  future  well-being  of  his  most 
immediate  relatives.  The  impression  was  urgently  con 
veyed.  Old  T.  B.  capitulated.  It  was  arranged  that  Slade 
should  leave  on  the  next  Friday  and  need  not  return  until 
the  following  Tuesday.  So  on  Friday,  the  twentieth,  he 
turned  over  certain  important  manuscripts  to  Miss  Peabody, 
drawing  a  long  face  of  regret  which  did  not  impress  her 
in  the  slightest,  joined  her  upon  a  short  excursion  into  per 
siflage,  beamed  upon  and  gesticulated  farewells  at  everyone 
in  the  office,  with  the  exception  of  Mr.  Spofford  who  was, 
as  usual,  closeted  with  Mr.  Brush  inveighing  against  the 
latest  demands  of  the  A.  F.  of  L.,  and  hastily  departed,  with 
incredibly  battered  suitcase,  for  the  Pennsylvania  Station. 

His  train  left  for  Philadelphia  at  eleven  o'clock.  He 
would  arrive  in  Tupton  at  eleven  that  night.  Uncle  Charles 
would  not  mind.  He  always  sat  up  reading  until  after 
twelve,  and  Slade  could  have  found  the  Poplar  Street  house 
in  an  eclipse.  It  was  no  walk  at  all  for  a  young  man,  from 
the  station.  To-morrow  then,  Saturday,  he  might  see  her. 
He  began  to  go  over  certain  things  they  had  talked  about. 
Her  mystery  enthralled  him  again,  as  the  long,  sluglike  sur 
face-car  slid,  clanged  and  hissed  its  airbrakes  up  Broadway. 


CHAPTER  XV:    "I  AM  RICHARD  TERRELL'* 

IT  was  the  next  morning,  Saturday,  at  9 130,  that  a  woman 
stood  hesitatingly  on  the  threshold  of  the  reception  room 
of  The  Colosseum.  Her  figure  still  showed  lines  of  youth. 
Her  face  was  pale  but  attractive.  She  held  her  head  erect, 
as  though  confronting  danger.  Bright  eyes,  pleasant  fea 
tures.  Under  her  hat,  a  glint  of  bronze  on  soft  hair.  She 
carried  a  black  leather  brief-case. 

She  came  tentatively  into  the  open,  from  between  the  long 
dark-red  portieres.  She  glanced  at  the  shut  glass-panelled 
door  on  her  right,  at  the  wide  open  doorway  to  the  domain 
of  the  Art  Department  on  her  left.  She  proceeded  toward 
the  imitation-mahogany  typewriter-desk  under  the  green- 
shaded,  gold-nimbussing  droplight.  Behind  the  desk  sat  a 
young  woman  with  fluffy  yellow  hair,  horn  glasses,  and  a 
white  shirtwaist.  She  was  typing  cards. 

She  looked  up  and  smiled  pleasantly  as  the  stranger  stood 
in  front  of  her.  "Yes?"  she  inquired. 

"I — I  should  like  to  see  one  of  the  editors.  I  sent  in  a 
manuscript  some  time  ago " 

"Certainly.  Won't  you,"  indicating,  "just  wait  a  moment. 
Someone  will  see  you " 

The  visitor  retired  to  the  corduroy-upholstered  sofa.  The 
yellow-haired  girl  finished  typing  in  their  proper  columns 
"6/3/20",  "S.B.",  "6/5/20"  under  the  column  headings 
"RECD",  "READER",  "RET".  The  title  of  the  ill- 
fated  manuscript  and  the  name  of  the  ill-starred  author  had 
already  been  entered  as  "Beneath  the  Weeping  Willow" — 
Mignon  Foley — Verse. 

The  yellow-haired  girl  flipped  her  card  from  the  ma 
chine.  She  arose  and  vouchsafed  a  languid  remark  about 

144 


"I  AM  RICHARD  TERRILL"  145 

the  weather  to  her  companion  in  outer  darkness,  the  square- 
visaged  kindly-looking  elder  woman  behind  the  roll-top,  who 
was  estimating  costs  on  the  August  number  and  munching 
a  peppermint.  She  turned  toward  the  awe-inspiring  vista 
of  the  editorial  rooms  and  the  woman  sitting  nervously 
upright  on  the  sofa  saw  her  cross  toward  the  left,  inside. 

"Somebody  to  see  the  editor.  Will  you  see  her,  Miss  Pea- 
body?  Mr.  Breckinridge  isn't  here  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know.  Just  a  moment.  One  minute.  I'll  be 
there." 

The  yellow-haired  girl  departed  with  this  information. 
Having  delivered  it,  she  sat  down,  inserted  another  card  in 
her  Underwood  and  rattled  off  "His  Proper  Sphere" — • 
T.  F.  Zalinski — Fiction — 

Miss  Peabody  advanced  from  the  inner  room.  Her  crisp 
and  cleanly  presence  had  always  reminded  Slade  of  freshly- 
cut  sweet-peas.  She  usually  wore  a  high  jabot  collar  to  her 
handkerchief  linen  shirtwaists.  Even  in  the  present  late 
July  heat  they  did  not  wilt.  Miss  Peabody's  nose  was  promi 
nently  acquiline,  her  smile  delicately  satiric.  Her  dark  eyes 
surveyed  you  with  frank  interest.  Her  dark-brown  hair 
was  dexterously  and  attractively  arranged,  never  straying. 
She  had  a  dash  of  New  England  and  a  Puckish  strain  often 
overcoming  much  natural  dignity.  Her  eye  was  keen  for 
character.  All  sorts  of  people  interested  her.  She  greeted 
the  woman  on  the  couch  with  entire  naturalness,  and  sat 
down  beside  her.  "I  am  the  Dragon's  assistant,"  she  said, 
smiling  with  a  gleam  of  white  teeth.  "What  can  I  do  ?" 

The  woman  on  the  brown  corduroy  sofa  clasped  and  un 
clasped  her  hands.  She  looked  up  at  Miss  Peabody  in 
tently,  enlarging  her  eyes.  She  moistened  her  lips  with  a 
minute  pink  tongue-tip.  She  reminded  Miss  Peabody,  some 
how,  of  a  stray  kitten. 

"I  submitted  a  manuscript  some  weeks  ago,"  she  said 
softly.  "I  haven't  heard.  I  wondered  whether  you  could 
tell  me " 

"What  was  the  title  of  it?" 


146         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"  The— The  Crystal  Castle*.  It  just  occurred  to  me  this 
morning  that,  in  retyping  my  first  page,  I  might  have  forgot 
to  put  my  name  and  address  on  it.  You — you  see,  it's  been 
around  so  often  before — though  not  lately — it  got  so  shabby. 
I — I  didn't  have  an  envelope  at  the  time  to  enclose  for  re 
turn,  but  I  inclosed  stamps.  Anyway,  I  am  quite  sure,"  she 
added,  with  a  disheartened  glance,  "that — that  it  won't  be 
available;  so  I  thought  I'd  come  for  it.  Have  you  seen  it?" 

Miss  Peabody  had  been  scanning  her  face  intently. 

"Why,  of  course  I've  seen  it,"  she  said  slowly,  her  eyes 
still  trying  to  analyse  the  woman's  character.  She  smiled 
too,  for  she  found  much  appeal  in  that  face.  "Of  course 
I've  seen  it.  We  all  think  it  remarkably  good.  But  there's 
a  point,  you  see.  One  of  the  Noted  Sex,"  she  smiled  f  emin- 
istically,  "has — has — well,  did  you  submit  it  for  somebody 
else,  perhaps, — or  did  you  write  it?" 

"I  wrote  it,"  said  the  woman  simply. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you — do  you  mind  waiting?  Mr.  Brush  the 
editor  would  like  to  see  you  about  it,  I'm  sure.  I  know  he 
wants  to  accept  it — if — well  there  are  several  points  he  would 
like  to  talk  over  with  you.  Will  you  wait  just  a  minute?" 

"Oh — oh,  surely,"  murmured  the  other.  Colour  had  come 
back  into  her  cheeks.  Yet  her  eyes  stared.  "You  think 
there's  really — he  really  likes  it?" 

Miss  Peabody  had  risen.  "Why  of  course,"  she  said.  "It's 
a  beautiful  piece  of  work.  But  you  know  that !" 

"Yes,  of  course  I  do  know,"  murmured  the  woman.  "But 
you  know — most  magazines " 

A  few  moments  later  she  was  entering  the  sanctum  sane- 
torum. 

"A-ah,  Miss,  Miss — I  am  afraid  I  didn't  quite  catch  your 
name — aah,  won't  you  sit  down,"  said  Barrington  Tudor 
Brush,  rising  as  Miss  Peabody  ushered  the  visitor  in. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Miss  Peabody,  "I  completely 
forgot  to  ask  it?" 

"Cole,"  said  the  visitor.    "Ann  Cole." 

"Aah — er — I  see.    Well,  won't  you  sit  down,  Miss  Cole. 


"I  AM  RICHARD  TERRILL"  147 

Right  there,"  said  the  Editor-in-Chief.  "That's  it.  Aah— 
er — thank  you,  Miss  Peabody.  Thank  you  very  much. 
Now — aah — er — Miss  Pole;  no,  Cole  you  said,  Cole,  Cole; 
yes,  exactly,  aah — er — well,  the  fact  is  Miss  Cole,  the  fact 
is  that — er — it's  a  very  good  story  now,  isn't  it?" 

The  great  T.  B.  was  functioning  in  perfect  form. 

Miss  Cole's  somewhat  strained  face  took  on  a  puzzled  ex 
pression.  There  was  a  slight  twitching  of  the  corners  of  her 
mouth. 

"I  was,  in  fact,  greatly  impressed  by  that  story,  Miss  Cole. 
There  are  one  or  two  points  about  it.  Aah — as  I  remember 
it,  several  misspellings  and  a  prepositional  ending.  A  prepo 
sitional  ending,  you  know,  Miss  Cole,  is  very  unfortunate, 
and  so  easily  avoided — something  the  true  stylist  shrinks 
from.  But  the  story  has  impressed  me,  I  must  say, — has 
genuinely  impressed  me.  Now,  I  must  ask  your  indulgence, 
Miss  Cole.  There  is  another  point — there  has  been  a  per 
son — well,  in  fact,  Miss  Cole,  there  has  been  a  sugges 
tion .  I  suppose  you  have  never  heard  of  a  writer — an 

Englishman — named  Richard  Terrill?"  the  great  T.  B.  fin 
ished. 

He  was  sitting,  knees  crossed,  plumply  filling  his  round- 
backed  upholstered  desk  chair.  His  pepper-and-salt  suit 
was  deeply  wrinkled  around  the  vest.  His  near-sighted  blue 
eyes  blinked  at  her  through  the  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  The 
back  of  his  plump  right  hand  drew  her  eyes  to  its  pinkness 
as  that  hand  judicially  stroked  his  fluff  ed-out  reddish  mus 
tache. 

There  was  no  denying  the  flush  that  had  come  to  her 
cheek  at  the  mention  of  Terrill.  It  was  momentary  but  dis 
tinct.  Her  lips  opened  and  closed.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
widen  in  that  way  they  had. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,"  she  said.  "You  think  I  have 
stolen  from  Richard  Terrill." 

Directness  always  confused  T.  B.,  and  dismayed  him  a 
little.  There  was  something  in  candid  abruptness  that  re 
minded  him  of  the  Decline  of  Manners.  He  waved  both 


14*8          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

hands  in  intended  affability.  He  pointed  his  ruddy  chin 
high  and  caressed  his  mustache  with  fervour.  He  brought 
his  feet  down  square  upon  the  floor  and  leaned  forward  in 
an  earnestly  confidential  manner. 

"Not  at  all,  my  dear  lady,  not  at  all,"  said  old  T.  B.  "Not 
for  an  instant  did  I  intend  any  such  implication.  I  only 
heard  that  the  man  existed  a  short  while  ago.  I  merely  de 
sired  to  know  whether  by  any  chance " 

A  small  but  peculiarly  grim  smile  came  to  Miss  Cole's 
face,  a  smile  that  did  not  part  her  lips.  The  pupils  of  her 
eyes  revealed  secret  mischief. 

"Well,  you  see,  Mr.  Brush,  I  am  Richard  Terrill,"  said  the 
lady,  leaning  forward  also. 

"My  dear  lady,  why  I  think  it  astounding  enough  for  you 
to  manifest  acquaintance  with  the  work  of  this  writer,  of 
whom  I  heard  only  very  recently  through  the  friend  of  one 
of  my  assistants.  Aah — er — I  believe  he  is  the  author  of 
but  one  book,  and  that  an  exceedingly  rare  volume.  At  all 
events  I  have  never  chanced  upon  it  myself  and  have  so  far 
been  unable  to  locate  it  in  New  York,  though  I  have  been 
in  touch  with  several  of  the  rare  book-dealers  and  book- 
collectors.  But  really,  my  dear  lady,  it  is  a  certainty  in  the 
opinion  of  this  friend  of  my  assistant's,  whose  name  I 
need  not  divulge,  that  the  author  of  that  volume,  and, 
through  extreme  similarity  of  style,  the  author  of  this  story 
we  hold,  is  one  and  the  same  person — and  a  man.  Hence 
you  will  see " 

It  was  rather  tortuously  presented,  but  Ann  Cole  saw. 

"The  book  you  refer  to  is  'Golden  Windfall',"  she  said 
with  composure.  "It  was  published  in  England  five  years 
ago,  Swain  and  Higgins,  five  hundred  copies.  I  wrote  it 
under  the  name  of  Richard  Terrill.  I  wrote  the  story  you 
have  in  your  safe.  /  am  Richard  Terrill.  There  is  no 
other." 

She  was  emphatic. 

"But  my  dear  lady,  are  you  sure?" 


"I  AM  RICHARD  TERRILL" 

Once  an  idea  was  in  his  head,  T.  B.  could  be  exasperating 
about  any  effort  to  change  it. 

Miss  Cole's  voice  trembled  slightly.    She  bit  her  lip. 

"Perfectly.    Really,  I  ought  to  know." 

"But — aah — er — my  dear  Miss  Cole,  I  have  never  seen 
you  before  you  know.  I  should  be  extremely  glad  to  accept 

you  as  the  author  of  the  story "  He  turned  to  his  desk 

and  possessed  himself  of  the  manuscript  Miss  Peabody  had 
forethoughtedly  exhumed  for  him,  "I  haven't  the  slight 
est  doubt — not  the  slightest  doubt "  he  waved  at  her  as 

he  discovered  the  first  glimmer  of  balefulness  in  her  eyes. 
"I  haven't  the  slightest  doubt  that  what  you  say  is  true. 
I  simply  must  have  some  means  of  identification.  You 
doubtless  possess  contracts,  letters,  all  that.  If  you  will  be 
so  kind  as  to  let  me  see " 

"I  can  prove  it,"  said  Miss  Cole.  She  said  it  calmly  enough. 
"Yes,  that  will  be  the  best  way.  Yes.  I  am  glad  you  like 
the  story.  I  think  it  is  good  myself.  I  will  bring  you  the 
proof — sufficient  proof  that  I  wrote  both  it  and  'Golden 
Windfall'." 

She  rose.  Barrington  Tudor  Brush  also  rose.  He  bent 
toward  her  from  the  waist.  He  extended  his  hand.  Her 
tight  little  nervous  grip  closed  -upon  *his  kindly  but  rather 
flabby  one.  She  was  gone,  quickly,  'decisively. 

She  left  Barrington  Tudor  Brush  rather  at  a  loss.  He 
sat  down  in  his  round-backed  chair  again  and  stroked  his 
mustache.  He  blinked  through  his  glasses.  He  did  not 
really  believe  that  neat  little  person.  He  had  already  visual 
ised  Richard  Terrill.  If  Richard  Terrill  were  still  alive  he 
was  short,  ruddy,  mustached,  his  heart  and  his  manner 
charmingly  youthful.  He  bowed  from  the  waist.  He  was 
urbane  and  most  certainly  executive.  .  .  .  No,  he  could  not 
see  Miss  Ann  Cole  writing  "The  Crystal  Castle".  Where 
had  she  come  from?  Who  was  she?  True,  she  had  known 
all  the  details  that  he  knew  or  that  Coryat  knew  about 
"Golden  Windfall".  But  then — there  was  the  Library.  They 
had  given  him  those  bare  facts.  She  might  even  be  em- 


150          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

ployed  at  the  Library.  She  might  know  in  some  way . 

Good  Heavens,  for  all  his  urbanity  and  executiveness,  he 
had  forgotten,  completely  forgotten  to  ascertain  her  ad 
dress  !  He  bounced  into  the  outer  editorial  room. 

"Miss  Peabody — aah — er — did  you  take  Miss  Cole's  ad 
dress?" 

"Why,  no,  Mr.  Brush,  I  thought  she  had  left  it  with  you." 

"Has  she  gone?  Can't  you  run  after  her  to  the  elevator 
or — or  something.  An  oversight.  We  decidedly  should 
have  taken  her  address.  We  know  so  little  about  her.  I 
don't  really  think,  you  know ." 

But  Miss  Peabody,  rising  without  appearance  of  haste, 
had  vanished  through  the  reception-room  into  the  hall.  She 
returned  without  haste  but  swiftly.  "I'm  sorry,  Mr. 
Brush " 

"Aah — well,  well,  never  mind.  You  know  I  don't  really 
at  all  believe  that  young  lady " 

"She  stopped  at  my  desk  just  a  second,"  said  Miss  Pea- 
body,  "and  then  she  went  out  so  quickly,  saying  she  was 
coming  back  on  Monday " 

"I  know.  She  is  to  bring  some  means  of  identification. 
But  really,  Miss  Peabody,  I though  it's  quite  extraor 
dinary " 

He  stood  by  Miss  Peabody's  desk  for  a  moment  or  so, 
while  she  deftly  drew  from  him  just  exactly  what  Miss  Cole 
had  said. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Peabody.  "You  know  I  am  inclined  to 
believe  that  she  really  did  write  it." 

"But  we  really  know  nothing  about  her,  and  it  would 
seem  too  extraordinary " 

"Well,  we'll  know  on  Monday  anyway,"  said  Miss  Pea- 
body  briskly,  adjusting  her  desk-light,  since  the  sultry  day 
outside  had  darkened  for  storm,  and  dropping  her  eyes  to 
the  pile  of  manuscript  before  her.  Barrington  Tudor  Brush 
wandered  absent-mindedly  back  into  his  office. 


"I  AM  RICHARD  TERRILL"  151 

Miss  Ann  Cole  had  paused  in  the  doorway  of  the  build 
ing  that  housed  the  Colosseum,  the  Armenian  rug  firm 
and  the  New  York  branch  of  the  famous  Collar  Company. 
The  sky  was  dark  over  Union  Square  and  the  heat  of  the 
day  was  stirred  by  a  rising  breeze.  It  was  going  to  storm 
and  pour.  Her  best  plan  was  to  hurry  over  to  the  Sixth 
Avenue  "L"  at  i8th  Street.  She  could  make  it,  she  thought, 
before  the  rain.  Then  she  could  scuttle,  when  she  descended 
at  8th. 

She  turned  west  toward  Broadway  and  took  the  corner 
there.  She  had  brought  no  umbrella.  Just  opposite  a  bak 
ery  lunch  room  she  started  and  almost  halted. 

A  man  was  swinging  toward  her,  a  man  in  straw  hat 
and  heather-mixture  cheviot,  wagging  a  light  wanghee  cane. 
His  face  was  lean  and  brown,  with  a  deep  but  not  promi 
nent  jaw  and  a  somewhat  broad  and  uptilted  nose.  He  was 
not  looking  at  her.  He  was  gazing  reflectively  at  the  pave 
ment,  striding  deliberately.  Several  people,  going  Miss 
Cole's  way,  intervened  between  them.  Now  he  suddenly 
tilted  his  head  upward  and  back  and  directed  an  intent  glance 
at  the  cornice  of  a  building  across  the  street.  Then  his  head 
came  down.  Then  he  jerked  it  up  again.  He  swung  his 
stick.  He  had  passed. 

Involuntarily  she  whirled  upon  her  heel.  She  had  a 
glimpse  of  his  back  as  he  turned  the  corner.  She  bumped 
into  a  Roumanian  shopkeeper  who  had  stepped  out  of  his 
store  in  his  shirt-sleeves  for  a  breath  of  the  cooler  air  now 
blowing.  She  apologized  dazedly  and  crossed  the  street, 
hurrying  along  i8th  Street,  her  face  burning.  Traffic 
blocked  her  on  Fifth  Avenue.  As  she  waited,  her  mind 
raged.  He  must  have  seen  her — he  must  have  seen  her.  The 
traffic  jarred  to  a  halt.  She  scurried  across  the  Avenue. 
He  must  have  seen  her.  She  passed  along  beneath  gloomy 
high  buildings  of  a  sooty  grey.  He  must  have  known  who 
she  was.  Finally,  toiling  up  the  high  iron-bound  elevated 
stairs,  with  the  first  grumble  of  the  summer  thunder  in  her 
ears,  the  thumping  of  her  heart  seemed  a  louder,  more 


152          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

menacing  sound  by  far.  She  squeezed  into  a  fissure  between 
two  fat  Jewesses,  on  the  varnished  wicker  seat;  gates 
clashed,  the  train's  first  jerk  set  them  all  swaying. 

Miss  Ann  Cole  clutched  her  black  brief-case  and  stared  at 
the  Sealect  car-card  opposite,  without  seeing  it.  She  en 
visaged  also  a  gaudy  parrot  and  did  lip  service  to  the  legend, 
"A  Parrot  can  Say,  'Just  As  Good'  ".  Shac.  Fermillac. 
Nujol.  Mazola.  Rinso.  She  shook  her  head  slightly.  She 
compressed  her  lips.  He  must  have  known  her.  He  must 
have  known. 

"Eight  Street !"  emitted  the  conductor,  between  a  yelp  and 
a  groan. 

As  Miss  Cole  stepped  out  from  under  the  hooded  "L" 
stairs,  the  first  rain  was  falling.  Scuttling  was  in  demand. 
She  scuttled.  When  she  had  climbed  the  stairs  to  her  dingy 
room  and  removed  her  hat,  whose  protection  by  the  news 
paper  she  carried  had  not  been  altogether  complete,  she  shook 
out  her  skirts  and  sank  into  the  one  easy-chair  by  the  win 
dow.  She  stared  out  on  red  brick  and  dusty  leafage  pattered 
upon  by  the  soft  surge  of  the  rain.  It  increased.  It  hissed 
in  the  court  below.  It  filled  the  room  with  a  cool  earthy 

smell.     It  descended  steadily.     Endless  and  grey.  .  .  . 
*  *  * 

Richard  Coryat  came  briskly  into  the  reception-room  and 
paused  before  the  yellow-haired  girl  still  typing  cards.  "Mr. 
Breckinridge  ?"  he  asked. 

"He's  gone  for  the  week-end.  I'm  sorry,"  said  Miss  Hud 
son. 

"Maybe  I  could  see  Mr.  Brush  then.  .  .  .  Mr.  Coryat," 
he  supplied,  as  her  mouth  opened  for  a  question. 

He  found  the  great  T.  B.  looking  somewhat  distraught. 

"Well,  well,  Mr.  Coryat, — yes,  how  are  you.  This  is 
really  quite  peculiar." 

Peculiar,  ruminated  Richard's  subconscious, — peculiar, — 
what  was? — who? 

But  his  conscious  mind  was  listening  attentively  to  the 
great  T.  B. 


"I  AM  RICHARD  TERRILL"  153 

" — came  in  here,"  the  great  T.  B.  was  saying,  "and  told 
me  she  had  written,  not  only  the  story  we  hold  but  TerriU's 
book  also.  She  has  gone  away  again,  to  bring  me  identifica 
tion  and  proofs." 

"What?"  You  don't  mean  it!  A  woman?"  exclaimed 
Coryat. 

"Jane,  Jane,  Jane, — Jane  had  a  lame  tame  crane,"  his  sub 
conscious  mind  murmured  indistinctly,  reviving  a  rhyme  of 
his  Aunt  Clara's  that  he  had  forgotten  for  years.  "Aunt 
Clara — Pie — Jane  had — Jane  had " 

"Coming  in  on  Monday,  eh?"  Coryat's  full  consciousness 
heard  itself  remark.  "I  hope  you'll  let  me  meet  her  ?" 

("Jane  had — Jane  had — Jane  had  a  lame  tame  crane.") 

"I  should  like  you  to  be  here  certainly,  if  you  can  ar 
range  it?" 

"What  time?" 

"Well — aah — er — as  to  that,  Miss — aah — er — Cole  didn't 
stipulate.  But — er " 

"Well,  let's  see.  Can  you  call  me,  Mr.  Brush?  It's  Gram- 
recy  7230.  I  wish  you  would,  when  she  comes.  I  expect 
to  be  in  all  day  Monday,  finishing  that  first  article  for  you, 
and  I  can  hurry  right  over.  This  really  interests  me  ex 
tremely." 

"Of  course  I  am  inclined  utterly  to  disbelieve "  Mr. 

Brush  negated.  He  spread  his  hands.  "But  still,  you 
know,  stranger  things " 

"Exactly.  It  really  would  be  quite  surprising.  Well,  I 
won't  keep  you  from  your  work.  I  just  dropped  in  to  see 
Breckinridge.  He's  away  I  understand?" 

"He  will  be  back  on  Tuesday." 

"Well,  don't  let  me  detain  you.  You  surely  will  call  me, 
though,  won't  you?  Quite  remarkable,  isn't  it?  But  I  sup 
pose  you  editors  have  many  such  experiences.  And  after  all, 
of  course,  this  young  lady  may  be  an  utter  impostor. 

Still .  Well,  good  afternoon.  By  the  way,  I'll  be  in 

on  Tuesday  anyway,  to  deliver  that  first  article." 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

He  bowed  and  smiled  to  Miss  Peabody  as  he  passed  her 
desk.  Slade  had  introduced  them  originally. 

"Is'nt  it  thur-rilling !"  came  the  mock-awful  voice  of  Miss 
Peabody. 

"Quite,"  returned  Coryat,  halting.  "Oh,  quite.  I  intend 
to  be  in  at  the  death  on  Monday  though.  Couldn't  possibly 
forego  it.  You  saw  her,  of  course  ?" 

"Yes,  I  talked  to  her.  She  really  has  considerable  dis 
tinction.  She  seems  somebody.  I'm  interested  in  her. 
What's  more,  I  believe  she  wrote  that  story." 

"Why?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  She  looks  it.  She  looks  like  a  writer. 
And  her  eyes — my  bottom  dollar  she's  absolutely  honest." 

"Queer  though — isn't  it.  Well,  I  must  on.  I  repeat, 
I'll  be  in  at  the  death." 

"No,  not  that  phrase,  Mr.  Coryat.  I'm  standing  up  for 
her." 

"Oh,  but  good  Lord,  so  am  I  for  that  matter.  Only  I  can't 
believe  she's  really  Richard  Terrill.  Well,  till  we  meet 
again." 

He  nodded  and  smiled.  Miss  Peabody  smiled,  lifting  her 
satiric  eyebrow. 

As  he  pressed  the  elevator  button  his  subconscious  mind 
became  almost  audible. 

"Jane's  crane  was  tame  and  lame,  her  crane  was  lame  and 
tame;  Jane  had — Jane  had " 

"What  the  devil,"  thought  Coryat.  "What  the  devil's 
that  from?  Who  the  devil?  What  the  devil ?  What?" 

He  found  no  answer. 


CHAPTER  XVI:    TRAGIC  INTERLUDE 

THE  grey  rain  fell.    The  woman  had  been  sitting  by  the 
window  for  half  an  hour.     She  withdrew  her  eyes 
from  the  falling  rain  and  looked  at  her  leather-strapped 
wrist  watch.    She  raised  her  eyes  to  the  rain  again.    She  sat 
quietly,  chin  on  hand,  watching  the  rain. 

What  proofs  had  she  thought  she  had?  Anyway,  what 
did  that  matter  either?  What  did  anything  matter,  now? 

Dick  indeed!  Dick  indeed!  Oh,  Dick!  .  .  .  Dick  and 
Jane  .  .  . 

Life  assumed  its  true  outline.  Hard,  grey,  dull.  The 
softest  thing  in  it  was  the  whispering  of  the  rain.  Whisper 
ing,  "Go  to  sleep!  Go  to  sleep!" 

It  was  impossible  to  imagine  the  energy  that  could  even 
arise  and  put  a  teakettle  on  the  burner.  Even  that.  Impos 
sible  to  imagine. 

Dick  indeed!  After  all  this  time.  Dick  indeed.  After 
all  this  time.  After  all  that.  What  sorry  nonsense! 

What  a  perfect  faculty  for  remembrance  and  recognition 
she  possessed,  she  thought  bitterly. 

But  then,  after  all,  he  had  changed  so  little.  Had  she 
changed  so  much? 

The  exhaustion  that  couldn't  rise  to  put  on  the  kettle 
could  rise  to  stare  in  the  mirror.  Yes,  she  must  have 
changed  a  great  deal.  Dick  and  Jane.  Bah!  Horrible 
ugly  face.  She  ground  her  teeth  at  it.  She  clacked  the 
hanging  mirror  to  the  wall.  Ugly  lath.  She  turned  it  round 
again. 

Dick  and  Jane.  .  .  .  Good  heavens,  what  a  metronome! 
Damn  it!  It  was  infuriating. 

i55 


156          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

She  leaned  against  the  mantle-shelf  looking-  at  the  backs  of 
Bergson  and  Freud  and  Lytton  Strachey.  She  meditated  the 
years.  Well,  why  hadn't  they  changed  him  too?  Why 
hadn't  they  changed  him? 

She  never  kept  letters.  Besides,  there  had  been  a  holo 
caust  of  them  years  back.  She  had  discovered  the  loss  of 
that  old  contract  two  years  ago.  She  had  burdened  herself 
with  no  papers.  Prove  that  she  was  Richard  Terrill  ?  Only 
George  Higgins  was  alive.  She  had  not  even  kept  that 
postal  from  George  Higgins  dated  at  Palermo,  received  last 
fall.  And  he  had  sent  no  forwarding  address.  Lord  knows 
where  he  was  now.  There  had  never  been  a  deader  failure 
than  that  book,  a  greater  disappointment.  She  could  prob 
ably  get  in  touch  with  a  few  people  in  England,  by  writing, 
after  weeks,  maybe  months.  But,  what  in  heaven's  name  did 
it  all  matter  now.  .  .  . 

It  wasn't  fair.  It  never  had  been  fair.  It  never  had  been 
fair.  She  was  weak.  She  was  snivelling.  She  shook  the 
angry  tears  out  of  her  eyes. 

She  went  back  and  ground  her  teeth  and  glared  her 
worst  at  the  mirror.  The  metronome  had  stopped.  What 
was  there  to  do. 

She  hated  him,  she  loathed  him,  she  detested  him!  Ha! 
— ha!  ha! — think  of  letting  him  know.  Just  imagine  it, 
will  you?  Just  picture  it!  Ha.  Ha-ha.  Dick  and  .  .  .  ! 

Yes,  of  course,  that  was  what  all  these  last  weeks  had  been 
saying.  It  was  a  failure.  Writing.  Life.  Talent?  Yes, 
she  had  had  it.  Heartbreak  didn't  break  you.  You  learned 
to  write  in  it.  Write  well.  It  never  broke  you.  It  never 
would  break  you.  You  would  break  yourself  in  two,  some 
time,  with  your  bare  hands — like  that — snap!  But  it  would 
never  be  heartbreak  that  broke  you.  No.  O,  indeed  not! 
Heartbreak!  She  sniffed  contemptuously,  her  lower  lip 
bitten  by  her  upper  teeth.  She  straightened  her  shoulders 
and  turned  away  from  the  mantle,  stood  with  drawn  cheeks 
and  intolerably  bright  eyes,  staring,  wire-drawn,  scornful. 


TRAGIC  INTERLUDE  157 

Her  right  arm  lay  along  the  mantle  as  she  faced  the  win 
dow.  Her  head  was  high. 

Her  head  lay  on  her  right  arm,  in  the  crook  of  her 
left  arm,  too.  Her  fingers  twisted  and  twisted  and  twisted 
together.  Her  face  was  hidden. 


CHAPTER  XVII:    MR.  DUFFITT  IS  QUITE  MIS 
TAKEN 

MR.  JASON  DUFFITT,  brooding  over  Miss  Sophia 
Crome's  conjectures,  encountered  disaster.  Mrs. 
Ventress  had  expressed  acquiescence,  at  length,  in  reply  to 
his  urgent  request  to  show  her  some  of  the  possible  building 
sites  beyond  the  Axter  Road.  He  had  brushed  aside  with 
a  fat  hand  her  assurances  that  she  had  no  intention  of  buying 
or  building.  "Do  no  harm,"  he  remarked.  "Like  to  show 
you."  One  morning  he  turned  up  about  ten  o'clock.  The 
day  was  still  fairly  cool.  After  an  exchange  of  politenesses 
they  started  forth  together. 

As  Mr.  Gartner  had  remarked,  there  was  something  ob 
scurely  unlikable  about  Jason  Duffit.  He  had  a  secretive 
nervous  side.  No  one  had  ever  known  much  about  his 
private  life,  except  that  he  seemed  a  plethoric  rather  mum- 
chance  bachelor,  employing  a  grey-haired  negro  woman  from 
the  Bottom  to  cook  his  meals.  His  business  in  Coal  and 
Wood  had  always  been  conducted  in  an  affable  manner 
enough.  He  seemed  strictly  honest.  He  had  handled  matters 
of  real  estate  in  an  acceptable  manner.  He  was  acquainted 
with  everybody  in  a  breezy,  offhand  fashion,  and  friends 
with  none.  That  he  seemed  susceptible  to  feminine  beauty 
had  been  remarked,  but  no  breath  of  scandal  had  touched 
him.  He  went  to  church  regularly  of  a  Sunday,  and  his  at 
titude  in  conducting  business  dealings  was  sufficiently  dig 
nified.  He  was  "good  ole  Jase"  to  many.  His  political  opin 
ions  were  comfortably  conservative. 

Romance,  however,  is  an  odd  mistress.  Jason  had  no 
mind,  knew  hardly  anything  about  books.  Nevertheless  he 
had  once  subscribed  for  a  set  of  Court  Memoirs  that  an 

158 


MR.  DUFFITT  IS  QUITE  MISTAKEN      159 

itinerant  book-agent  offered  him  with  certain  remarks  made 
in  a  lowered  voice.  He  had  added  to  these,  several  bulky 
volumes  bound  in  bright  red  which  he  had  purchased  in  a 
second-hand  store  in  Barrack  Falls.  These  purchases  he 
had  always  kept  dark.  The  books  stood  under  glass  and  be 
hind  curtains  in  a  small  locked  book-case  in  his  bedroom.  Of 
a  summer  evening  he  was  accustomed  to  unlock  that  book 
case,  to  sit  by  a  very  hot  lamp  at  the  rear  window  of  his 
bedroom,  with  his  stockinged  feet  upon  the  sill,  and  peruse 
the  pages  with  a  constantly  wetted  thumb  and  an  odd  gloat 
ing.  He  read  slowly,  almost  painfully,  assimilating  not  at  all 
the  historical  or  literary  values  of  the  volumes.  Fascinating 
court  favourites  and  redolent  amours  were  the  things  that 
feasted  his  eyes. 

There  was,  indeed,  something  Heliogabalan  about  the  se 
cret  imagination  of  Jason  Duffitt.  It  was  reflected  in  that 
odd  look  in  his  eyes.  Outwardly  he  was  quite  shamefacedly 
moral,  uprightly  conservative ;  inwardly,  how  he  would  have 
enjoyed  the  license  of  old  Rome  in  her  decline!  It  would 
seem  a  pity  that  Jason  had  been  born  so  far  out  of  his  proper 
period. 

Sophia  Crome,  with  spinsterish  if  perfectly  maidenly  in 
sinuation  about  people  of  the  town,  fed  his  fancy.  He  had 
always  like  Sophia  for  that  reason.  And  then  he  never  re 
garded  Sophia  as  a  woman.  Hers  was  rather  the  tongue  of 
an  extremely  weak  and  diluted  Aretino.  She  could,  for 
instance,  never  have  blasted  a  reputation — she  would,  of 
course,  never  have  indulged  in  "language" — she  merely  never 
ceased  insinuating. 

Her  conjectures  about  the  lady  up  at  the  Battell  place 
had,  unfortunately,  fed  Jason's  fancy  too  spicily.  The  side 
of  his  mind  affected  by  her  gossip  germinated  a  barbaric 
illusion.  Which  was  really  too  bad. 

He  and  Mrs.  Ventress  took  their  way  across  a  field  under 
the  Hill  on  the  upper  slope  of  which  the  white  portico 
of  the  Institute  gleamed  in  the  morning  sunshine. 

"Yeah,"  Duffitt  was  saying.    "Good  bit  o'  property  that. 


160         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Bill  Farrein  hang  on  to  it  too.  Not  thinkin'  of  buyin'  here, 
you  say,  Mrs.  Ventress?" 

"Why  no, — as  I  told  you,"  returned  Adela. 

"Do  worse,"  said  Duffitt.  "Coin'  t'be  garden  spot,  some 
day.  Garden  spot." 

"You  know  I'm  just  here  for  the  summer,"  said  Adela. 
"Though  I  like  it  here." 

"Do  worse,"  repeated  Duffitt.     "Do  worse." 

The  churring  of  the  crickets  was  loud  all  around  them  as 
they  crossed  the  unploughed  part  of  the  field. 

Suddenly  the  stout  Duffitt  stopped  and  began  mopping  his 
brow.  He  shot  a  sidewise  glance  at  the  lady  under  the  sun 
shade.  She  was,  as  he  expressed  it  to  himself,  "easy  to 
look  at." 

"Old  style,"  he  assured  himself,  thinking  aloud. 

"What?    I  didn't  hear." 

"Thinkin'.  So  many  women  runnin*  crazy  these  days. 
Tearin'  round,  yellin',  votin'.  Like  the  old  style,  m'self. 
You — you  look  it." 

"Thank  you.     But  that's  amusing  too." 

"Why?     You  know  you're  that  kinu." 

"You  don't  believe  then  in  woman  suffrage?" 

"Humph.     Say  not.     Jew? 

It  was  not  a  question  of  race. 

"Why  certainly  you  don't  believe  there  are  more  idiotic 
women  than  there  are  men?" 

"Huh?" 

Mr.  Duffitt  seemed  surprised. 

"There  are  equally  as  many  women  who  can  use  the  bal 
lot  with  intelligence.  And  then  we  have  quite  as  much 
natural  solidarity — with  a  little  education." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Duffitt  sombrely.  "Well,"  He  seemed 
unable  to  get  on.  They  were  walking  again  and  had  come 
to  a  tree  at  the  other  end  of  the  meadow.  There  was  a 
humped  spreading  root  of  it  that  made  a  convenient  seat. 
As  Duffitt  halted  once  more,  Mrs.  Ventress  sat  down  on 
the  root. 


MR.  DUFFITT  IS  QUITE  MISTAKEN      161 

"Well,"  summoned  Jason.  "Well  now  I'm  s'prised  hear 
you  say  that.  But  that  ain't  it  after  all,  y'know.  Runnin' 
roun,  shoutin' " 

"But  after  all,"  returned  Adela,  "it's  hardly  an  issue  any 
longer.  Of  course,"  she  added,  "Socialism  still  is." 

"What?"  Mr.  Duffitt  was  really  shocked.  "You're  not 
a  socialist,  Mrs.  Ventress?  I'll  say  not.  I'll  certainly 
say  not." 

"There  are  so  many  kinds.    I'm — my  kind." 

"An'— an'  free  love— an',  an'  all  that?" 

Adela's  smile  was  deeply  amused.  Inadvertently  she 
raised  her  eyebrows  even  more.  It  gave  her  a  piquant  ap 
pearance. 

"Sex,"  said  Adela,  "is  another  perplexing  question.  Ber 
nard  Shaw " 

"Well,"  said  Duffitt,  mopping  his  face  again.  "Well," 
said  Jason,  turning  toward  the  sun  and  pulling  his  hat- 
brim  over  his  eyes. 

As  he  stood  so,  his  cigar  raked  upward  at  an  angle  from 
his  puffy  mouth.  He  regarded  a  distant  church  spire  with 
the  minutest  attention.  Adela  had  an  impish  prompting  to 
tell  him  to  stand  on  his  head  and  regard  it  from  that  point 
of  view.  However,  she  didn't. 

"Huh,"  said  Mr.  Duffitt,  removing  his  cigar  and  trans 
ferring  his  gaze  to  it  with  an  evident  wonder  at  its  inani 
mate  existence,  a  childlike  stupidity.  "Well  now "  He 

reinserted  the  cigar.  He  began  clipping  the  grass  with  his 
stick. 

"Don't  you  think  so?"  Adela  couldn't  help  saying  quite 
gravely. 

"Well  now,  y'know,"  said  the  utterly  unskilled  Jason, 
removing  his  hat  and  looking  inside  it  as  if  he  expected  to 
find  an  Easter  egg,  "well  y'know,  speakin'  as  a  man  of  the 
world,  o'course  I  know — o'course  I  know " 

He  puffed  his  mouth  even  more,  endeavouring  to  assume 
a  judicial  demeanour. 


162         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"O'course,  Mrs.  Ventress,"  he  remarked  suddenly, 
"There's  them  as  does  and  them  as  don't." 

"Don't  believe  in  Bernard  Shaw?  But  I  don't  believe 
Shaw  believes  in  free  love.  And  then  it  all  depends  so  much 
upon  the  definition  of  course." 

She  had  really  forgotten  him.  She  was  really  thinking, 
trying  to  think  honestly.  There  was  something  pathetic 
about  him  and  he  was  puzzled.  Puzzled  by  large  abstrac 
tions. 

"Well  I—"  Mr.  Duffitt  suddenly  began  to  walk  to  and 
fro.  He  looked  at  her  swiftly  askance  several  times.  He 
was  visibly  out  of  his  element,  but  he  was  inordinately  at 
tracted  by  her  as  he  looked  at  her. 

Finally  he  made  a  sort  of  swimming  gesture  with  his 
hands.  Perhaps  this  restored  him  to  his  element,  because 
he  began  to  speak  again. 

"Breaks  up  families,"  quoth  he,  and  puffed  heavily  upon 
his  cigar,  regarding  it  ever  and  anon  as  if  surprised  that 
it  remained  with  him. 

"Yet — "  said  Mrs.  Ventress,  trying  to  think  it  out,  and 
paused.  Her  chin  was  cupped  in  one  hand,  one  elbow  on  her 
knee.  She  gazed  over  the  field.  She  made  a  charming 
picture  in  her  gardening  hat. 

Mr.  Duffitt  had  never  seen  such  a  woman.  He  was  per 
turbed  but  strangely  and  deeply  thrilled  by  her.  He  hung 
on  to  his  cigar.  He  walked  up  and  down. 

"Free  love,"  Mr.  Duffitt  affirmed,  "is  a  sin." 

"As  I  said,"  returned  Adela,  "or  as  I  meant  to  say,  so 
much  depends  upon  your  definition.  When  you  think  of 
present  conditions  in  marriage,  things  could  hardly  be  worse. 
You'll  grant  that?" 

She  looked  at  him,  quite  seriously. 

"Know  what  you  mean,"  said  Jason,  meaning  he  thought 
he  did.  "Your  idea  is ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Adela  simply,  spreading  her  hands. 

"You ?"  said  Mr.  Duffitt,  stopping  and  looking  at 

her,  rather  flushed. 


MR.  DUFFITT  IS  QUITE  MISTAKEN       163 

Mrs.  Ventress  was  slowly  aware  that  there  was  some 
thing  not  quite  agreeable  in  his  tone.  She  was  tired  of 
the  subject  anyway,  and  perhaps  she  should  not  have  entered 
upon  it  with  this  comic  creature.  But  such  subjects  always 
drew  her  into  argument. 

She  got  up.    "Well,  shall  we  turn  back?"  she  said. 

Jason  stood  watching  her.  His  colour  was  high.  A 
strange  expression  had  come  about  his  mouth  and  eyes.  All 
that  Miss  Crome  had  implied  so  subtly  seemed  flagrantly 
manifest.  He  said  quite  clearly  "Hey?" 

Adela  looked  at  him  astonished.  But  also  he  did  look 
amusing. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  As  he  raised  his  eyes  to  her 
hair,  "My  hat?"  Her  hands  went  up  to  her  hat  while  her 
sunshade  trailed. 

Suddenly  she  realised  that  Mr.  Duffitt  had  made  a  move 
ment  to  embrace  her. 

"Here !    What  ?"  said  Mrs.  Ventress,  stepping  back. 

"Aw  now !"  said  Mr.  Duffitt  with  a  rather  hoarse  chuckle. 

She  was  extremely  astonished.  She  could  not  help  think 
ing,  as  she  stepped  behind  the  tree,  that  this  was  colossally, 
flagrantly  absurd.  But  certainly  scary. 

She  made  a  mistake  in  stepping  behind  the  tree.  Mr. 
Duffitt  stepped  behind  the  tree.  He  also  had  mistaken. 
Suddenly  Adela  became  very  cold  and  angry.  Her  muscles 
tightened  to  steel  wire  and  she  jabbed  Mr.  Duffitt  accurately 
in  the  neck  with  the  ferule  of  her  sunshade.  It  was  a  short- 
arm  thrust,  it  hurt  his  neck.  He  thought  it  must  have  gone 
through  it. 

And  she  was  suddenly  very  sorry.  But  she  remained 
in  the  same  posture,  erect,  furious.  Mr.  Duffitt  regarded 
his  fingers  several  times,  astonished  at  not  seeing  them  cov 
ered  with  blood,  evidently.  He  backed  off. 

He  did  not  say  anything.  He  eyed  her  with  astonish 
ment.  The  longer  he  eyed  her  the  rounder  his  eyes  became. 
He  halted  and  regarded  her.  His  eyes  fell  before  hers. 
There  was  something  that  prevented  his  approaching  her 


164          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

again.  Something  that  prevented  him  from  speaking  to  her 
again. 

Suddenly  he  turned  and  began  to  walk  with  odd  hitchi- 
ness,  as  though  he  were  not  quite  sober,  across  the  ploughed 
part  of  the  field,  stumbling  among  the  clods.  He  made  a 
wavering  course  toward  the  far-off  Axter  Road.  He  di 
minished  in  the  distance. 

Mrs.  Ventress  came  slowly  from  behind  the  tree.  She 
stood  watching  him.  She  raised  her  sunshade.  She  was 
still  astonished  and  shivering  from  the  reaction  from  anger. 
But  her  fear  had  been  only  momentary.  She  was  actually 
sorry  for  that  diminishing  lurching  figure.  He  became,  with 
the  distance,  more  and  more  grotesque. 

"We-el "  said  Mrs.  Ventress  to  herself,  in  the  abso- 

lutely-giving-it-up  manner. 

"We-el,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress.    "Well,  really!" 

She  began  to  pick  her  way  across  the  grass,  biting  her  lip 
and  raising  her  eyebrows  at  the  sun-speckled  leaves. 

By  the  time  she  regained  the  Axter  Road  there  remained 
only  a  faint,  incredulous  disgust.  An  ordinary,  apparently 
mentally  responsible  person  had  suddenly  turned  into  a  par 
ticularly  unpleasant  kind  of  lunatic.'  The  metamorphosis 

had  been  scary — but  not  so  much  scary  as .  Adela 

wrinkled  her  small  nose,  shrugged  nervously.  How  could 
you  possibly  be  angry,  however,  with  a  man  so  much  like  a 
mountebank?  Besides  she  was  really  sorry  if  she  had  hurt 
his  neck.  The  whole  episode  was  entirely  unreal.  As  she 
clicked  her  front  gate,  she  decided  just  to  forget  it.  It  was 
both  undignified  and  utterly  absurd. 

As  she  went  upstairs  she  remembered  Mr.  Duffitt  looking 
into  his  hat  as  if  to  find  an  Easter  egg.  At  that  she  sud 
denly  stopped  and  laughed.  The  still  house  echoed  her. 

As  for  Jason,  he  hurried  down  the  Farm  Road.  He  was 
beginning  to  realise  just  what  a  mammoth  ass  he  had  made 
of  himself.  To  his  disordered  mind  she  had  been  both 
taunting  and  tempting  him.  The  groove  worn  smooth  in 
his  brain  by  much  secret  lascivious  thinking  had  seemed  to 


MR.  DUFFITT  IS  QUITE  MISTAKEN      165 

broaden  and  tilt  like  the  bed  of  a  torrent  under  a  quicken 
ing  current  of  delirious  surmise.  Now  the  colour  of  actual 
grass,  the  colour  of  actual  dust  ached  upon  his  sight.  The 
reality  of  the  whitewashed  fence  he  was  passing,  of  the 
Cripps'  red  barn  showing  distantly  southward,  panged  his 
senses.  His  ordinary  caution  and  shrewdness  ranted  in  his 
brain  like  demons,  "You  fool!" 

And  about  his  heart,  faint  as  a  thin  trickle  of  icy  water, 
ran  a  little  cold  fear.  What  impulse  could  possibly  have  led 
him  to  affront  a  lady  of  evident  position  and  importance  in 
New  York,  to  whom  he  had  rented  the  Battells'  house? 
Suppose  this  came  out  ?  What  of  the  Battells  ?  What  would 
the  town  say  ?  How  could  he  explain  ?  What  had  possessed 
him? 

He  became  aware  of  the  necessity  of  presenting  an  un 
ruffled  front  to  Market  Street.  At  the  lower  end  of  the 
Farm  Road  he  stopped  his  heavy  padding,  straightened  his 
tie,  mopped  his  forehead,  flicked  his  shoes  with  his  bandanna 
handkerchief.  He  adopted  as  nonchalant  a  manner  as  pos 
sible  crossing  the  street.  The  rest  of  the  day  he  sat  closely 
confined  to  his  office,  suffering  the  tortures  of  damned  spir 
its.  When  he  saw  Mrs.  Ventress  in  the  distance,  on  the 
station  platform,  a  few  days  later,  it  disturbed  him  con 
siderably.  When,  still  later,  he  learned  that  she  was  pre 
sumably  going  to  Philadelphia  for  a  couple  of  days,  he  be 
gan  fearfully  to  speculate.  He  passed  through  a  period  of 
being  extremely  scared.  Out  of  fear  comes  hate.  Hate  is 
anything  but  reasonable. 


CHAPTER    XVIII:    BESSIE    ENLIVENS    BREAK 
FAST 

ON  Saturday  morning,  the  twenty-first  of  July,  Slade  sat 
at  breakfast  with  Dr.  Gedney  in  the  house  on  Poplar 
Street.  Bessie  was  not  yet  down.  Annie  set  scrambled  eggs 
on  toast  before  them  and  disposed  their  cups  of  coffee. 

"Anything  exciting  been  happening?"  asked  Slade. 

"Arthur's  worried  about  the  store,  but  then  he's  always 
worried  about  the  store.  After  all,  the  store  is  one  of  our 
institutions  and  likely  to  remain  so.  Then  too  he  had  a 
black  Sumatra  die  the  other  day." 

"Too  bad.    And  your  history?" 

"Progressing.     Still  in  the  period  of  the  Civil  War." 

"What's  Bess  been  doing?" 

"Reading.  Going  around.  Still  taking  drawing  with  Mrs. 
Ventress.  Determined  to  try  her  hand  in  New  York  once 
she  gets  her  last  year  finished  at  the  Institute.  Well,  I 
suppose  that's  the  thing  for  her  to  do.  Pretty  quiet  here 
for  a  young  girl.  I  get  fearful  of  her  leaving.  Still,  it's 
always  been  my  belief  that — for  good  or  bad — they  must  try 
their  own  wings.  Bessie's  sensible.  And  she'd  have  you 
there,  of  course,  to  turn  to." 

"Surely  would.  I  think  you're  broad-minded  about  it, 
Uncle  Charles.  Most  fathers " 

"Oh,  well, — remember  Gertrude.  After  all,  you  can't 
keep  them." 

They  both  fell  silent.  Slade  remembered  Gertrude.  His 
own  mother  had  never  forgiven  Gertrude.  He  himself  did 
not  quite  understand  it.  His  father  thought  that  Gertrude 
must  have  died.  How  and  why  she  should  so  utterly  have 
disappeared?  His  father  said  it  was  her  mother.  His 

166 


BESSIE  ENLIVENS  BREAKFAST  167 

mother  defended  her  mother.  Uncle  Charles  never  men 
tioned  his  wife. 

It  must  have  been  a  terrific  thing  for  them  at  the  time — 
the  Gedneys.  To  Slade  it  was  largely  hearsay  at  long  dis 
tance,  a  story  in  which  for  a  long  time  he  had  had  no  con 
cern.  He  had  been  a  five-year-old  when  it  happened.  His 
first  real  appreciation  of  it  was  some  ten  years  later.  Her 
brother  Charles  was  very  dear  to  his  mother.  He  found 
her  crying  over  a  letter  of  his  one  morning  when  Slade  came 
home  early  from  school.  The  story  came  out  gradually  as 
a  secret — a  narration  of  old  unhappy  far-off  things.  Now 
Uncle  Charles  could  speak  of  Gertrude  quite  calmly,  with 
out  a  quiver  in  his  voice,  though  with  a  distinct  hint  of  sad 
ness.  The  stream  of  days  and  hours  had  flowed  on  steadily 
over  the  sunken  and  dulled  brightness  of  those  earlier  years. 
Their  silver  was  drifted  over  with  sand,  though  the  immu 
table  memory  persisted  under  the  settling  silt  of  grief  and 
run  and  ripple  of  time,  brighter  and  clearer  in  its  occasional 
resurrection  than  ever  the  reality  had  been,  perhaps. 

Slade  had  never  known  his  Aunt  Martha  at  all.  Though 
his  mother  loved  her  brother,  strangely  enough  she  had  never 
said  a  word  against  his  wife.  Slade's  father  really  under 
stood  Dr.  Gedney  far  better,  although  he  felt  no  particular 
warmth  toward  him.  Slade  had  heard  him  say  frankly  a 
number  of  times  that  he  had  "never  liked  that  woman". 
Slade's  mother  retorted  that  nevertheless  "Charles  was  al 
ways  so  wrapped  up  in  Gertrude.  How  could  she  leave  him 
that  way?" 

Then  there  were  the  usual  speculations  concerning  what 
could  ever  have  happened  to  her.  If  not  dead  surely  she 
would  have  come  back. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  don't  pretend  to  understand  it  myself.'* 
Mr.  Breckinridge  would  say.  "But  I  must  say  I  can't  blame 
her  for  wanting  to  get  away  from  that  woman " 

"What  did  you  know  of  Martha?  You  only  saw  her  twice 
in  your  life." 

"I  know  the  type." 


168         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"She  was  always  very  nice  to  us.  She  was  devoted  to 
him." 

"You  mean  she  never  let  go  of  him.    That's  true  enough." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  Charles  has  always  been 
perfectly  contented  in  Tupton.  She  made  his  life  hers." 

"Too  much  so,  I  should  say.  She  had  no  life  of  her  own. 
She  was  viciously  jealous  of  Gertrude." 

"Why,  George,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?  You  have 
absolutely  nothing  to  go  on." 

"I  know,  that's  all.    I  know  Charles.    You  don't." 

"Not  know  my  own  dear  brother!  Why  I  love  him  bet 
ter  than  anyone  in  the  world!" 

"Thanks,"  said  Mr.  Breckinridge  dryly.  "Yes,  I  know 
you  love  him ;  but  you  don't  understand  him." 

The  argument  was  unacrimonious  but  endless. 

It  always  broke  off  with  his  mother's  final  comprehensive 
indictment  of  Gertrude's  action,  during  which  his  father 
would  sit  silently  smoking.  Was  it  because  of  his  ingrained 
perversity  that  his  father  always  took  the  side  of  the  chil 
dren  against  the  parents  when  his  mother  took  the  side  of 
the  parents  against  the  children?  Slade  had  known  his 
father  take  exactly  the  opposite  position  in  arguments  with 
himself.  But  was  it  all  perversity?  No. 

Once  his  father  had  said  to  him  quietly,  "There's  a  cer 
tain  type  of  woman  I'd  run  a  thousand  miles  from;  so  why 
blame  Gertrude?"  And  once,  to  his  mother,  "It's  my  be 
lief,  you  know,  that  Charles  heard  from  her." 

"Why,  George,  you  never  said  that  before.  When,  pos 
sibly  ?  And  surely  he  would  have  told  us.  There  is  nothing 
hidden  about  Charles." 

"Why  should  he  have  told  us.  I  don't  mean  that  he  heard 
immediately.  But,  after  a  while — after  Martha's  death,  I 
believe  he  did.  And  why  should  he  have  told  us — anyone. 
There's  something  hidden  about  every  man — the  things  that 
go  deepest.  Why  should  he  have  told?" 

"Well  I  never  thought  of  that  possibility  at  all.  I  shall 
certainly  find  occasion " 


BESSIE  ENLIVENS  BREAKFAST          169 

"My  dear  Sally,  he  wouldn't  tell  you.  You  would  only 
hurt  him  needlessly  by  a  question.  It's  all  over  long  ago 
now.  Let  it  rest.  You  love  him,  so  let  it  rest." 

"Then  why  wouldn't  the  ungrateful  girl  have  come  back 
to  him,  knowing  how  he  loved  her?" 

"Pride  perhaps.  Complications.  Who  can  tell?  There's 
a  great  deal  of  pride  on  both  sides  of  that  family.  You 
ought  to  know  your  brother's  pride.  And  there's  more  to 
any  situation  than  meets  the  eye.  Gertrude  might  have 
thought— 

"Well,   I  simply  don't  understand  it!" 

"Yes,  it's  hard  to  understand — life,"  Slade  had  heard  his 
father  say,  musing.  "Very  hard  sometimes." 

After  getting  to  know  his  Uncle  Charles  Slade  often 
thought  his  father  might  have  divined  the  truth.  He  could 
not  understand  what  went  on  under  Uncle  Charles'  quiet  ex 
terior.  Now  as  he  glanced  at  him  across  the  breakfast  table, 
he  thought  what  a  mystery  every  single  human  being  is  to 
every  other,  in  spite  of  the  deep  fundamental  likenesses. 
A  singular,  silent  man,  his  Uncle  Charles.  A  wasted  life 
in  many  peoples'  opinion.  An  eccentric  character.  Probably 
far  more  deeply  emotional  than  he  ever  permitted  to  be 
shown.  A  mind  that  seemed  to  enjoy  losing  itself  in  the 
record  of  other  times,  without  any  strong  desire  for  ac 
quaintance  with  his  own.  A  dreamer,  a  solitary;  yet  with 
no  urgency  upon  him  of  a  message  to  deliver.  Taciturn 
without  moroseness,  seeking  always  through  books  and  never 
finding.  Contemplating.  A  man  of  few  words  and  scarcely 
any  friends.  A  man  with  a  peculiar  innocence  of  outlook, 
contented  with  simple  things.  A  sensitive,  half-paralysed 
being  stunned  by  certain  early  blows,  after  which  the  soul 
had  never  regained  full  consciousness.  All  in  the  mind.  Mys 
teriously  secret.  The  riddle  of  temperament.  Vaguely,  in 
such  fashion,  Slade  saw  his  uncle  as  the  latter  masticated 
and  sipped  coffee,  sitting  with  that  scholar's  droop  of 
shoulders. 

"Hello,  Slade!"  said  Bessie  brightly,  coming  quietly  into 


170          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

the  small  dining-room  and  around  the  table  toward  him. 
His  chair  gave  a  squeak  on  the  rug  as  he  half-rose.  "No, 
sit  down.  Good-morning!"  Her  cool  lips  just  brushed  his 
forehead.  She  looked  pretty,  dainty  and  cool  in  her  apple- 
green  frock.  She  seated  herself  at  the  side  of  the  table 
between  the  two  men. 

She  was  graver,  though,  more  sedate,  somehow  older. 
The  expression  on  her  face  was  as  brightly  youthful  as  ever, 
but  some  quality  Slade  did  not  understand  had  crept  into  her 
voice.  He  recognised  a  difference.  It  made  his  expression 
absent-minded  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"Sorry  Adela's  been  away  in  Philadelphia  for  a  few  days," 
Bessie  vouchsafed  after  a  minute  of  banter.  Slade  felt  some 
what  clumsy  in  answering,  through  his  disappointment,  "That 
so?  How's  she  been?" 

"Oh,  as  lovely  as  usual ;  and  I  must  show  you  the  drawing 
I  made  of  her.  She  thinks  it's  very  good.  It  really  isn't 
bad  at  all,  if  I  do  say  it.  But  she  went  on  this  trip.  How 
ever,  we'll  see  if  she's  back  by  to-morrow.  She  intended 
to  get  back  late  to-night." 

"That  so?  Love  to  see  your  drawing.  I'm  sure  it's 
good." 

"But  there  are  some  of  the  meanest  people  in  this  town," 
pronounced  Bessie  decidedly.  "I  think  Miss  Brattle  and 
those  two  old  Babbitt  spinsters  are  the  most  horrid  gossips 
I  ever  met  with.  And  as  for  Miss  Crome !  They've  spread 
around  a  sort  of  general  feeling  against  Adela.  It's  been 
growing — and  it's  all  their  fault.  I'd  like  to  choke  them. 
I've  run  up  against  it  several  times.  There's  nothing  definite 
said  so  it's  hard  to  know  what  to  do.  But  she's  beginning  to 
feel  it  too;  that's  the  awful  part  of  it.  It's  perfectly  hor 
rid/' 

"Really?"  said  Slade.     "That's  rotten." 

"It's  all  so  rid/culous  too,"  cried  Bessie.  "When  you  think 
of  her  fine  mind  and  the  quiet,  lovely  way  she  lives.  Of 
course  we  don't  know  much  about  her.  I  know  /  don't, 
and  I'm  certainly  her  most  intimate  friend  here.  But  I 


BESSIE  ENLIVENS  BREAKFAST          171 

know  she  has  an  adorable  mind  and  a  very  generous  dis 
position,  and  never  could  possibly  have  done  anyone  any 
harm.  Of  course  I  know  nothing  of  her  past  life — nor  do 
I  care — nor  do  I  care  one  snap!"  announced  Bessie,  waving 
a  piece  of  toast.  "  'Od  rot  'em !'  " 

Dr.  Gedney  looked  up  in  mild  surprise.  "Well,  Bess!" 
he  cautioned  in  amusement. 

"I  mean  it,"  said  Bessie.  "I  never  knew  before  that  some 
of  the  people  in  this  town  could  be  so  picayune.  It  isn't  the 
way  I've  been  brought  up  anyway.  Small-minded,  suspicious 
gossipers,  always  chattering  behind  each  other's  backs.  .  .  . 
And  I  hate  that  Mr.  Duffitt.  I  overheard  him  say  something 
sneering  about  Adela  the  other  morning  when  I  was  down 
at  the  market.  I  was  passing  him  to  buy  some  vegetables. 
He  was  talking  to  Mr.  Whinnymuir.  I  just  turned  around 
and  went  right  up  to  him  and  said,  "Mr.  Duffitt,  that's  a  lie ; 
and  to  say  the  least  it  is  in  the  worst  possible  taste  for  you 
to  speak  that  way  of  a  rentee  of  yours.  I  am  perfectly 
surprised  at  you !" 

"Why,  Bess!"  But  the  smile  twitched  about  the  corners 
of  her  father's  mouth.  "Rentee"  was  good.  Decidedly. 
"But  it  really  seems  to  me  most  remarkable  of  Mr.  Duffitt. 
What  did  he  say?" 

"Oh,  he  said  then  that  I  had  completely  misunderstood 
him,  and  turned  several  colours  and  explained  and  explained. 
But  I  know  I  didn't  misunderstand  him — though  there's 
no  use  going  over  it."  Bessie  bit  into  a  piece  of  toast  almost 
viciously.  "I  can  trust  my  own  ears.  Yes,  it  does  make  me 
furious,  as  nothing  else  does.  I  never  liked  that  Mr.  Duffitt 
anyway.  He's  too  fat." 

"But  your  Uncle  Arthur  is — ah — well,  portly?"  said  her 
father  soothingly. 

"But  that  isn't  at  all  the  same  thing.  Uncle  Arthur  is 
an  innocent.  Mr.  Duffitt  is  meandering  and  sly.  I  don't 
like  him.  Of  course  I  wouldn't  tell  Adela  what  I  heard 
him  say,  but  I  asked  her  if  she  liked  him." 

"Does  she?" 


172          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"She  simply  said,  'Why  should  I  like  him  or  dislike  him? 
I  suppose  he's  a  good  enough  real-estate  agent/  " 

"Well  he  certainly  isn't,  and  he  can't — to  say  the  least — 
have  any  brains,"  said  Slade,  "if  he  goes  around  talking  like 
that.  He  must  be  a  fool." 

He  liked  the  fervour  with  which  Bessie  had  taken  up  the 
cudgels  for  her  friend.  But  then,  of  course,  he  very  much 
liked  the  friend.  The  morning  seemed  sunnier  and  cooler 
in  the  thought  of  her. 

"All  small  towns  are  small-minded,"  he  said.  "You  and 
Uncle  Charles  are  exceptions  here.  You " 

"Oh,  no,  Slade,  it  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that,"  interrupted  his 
uncle.  "It  isn't  as  bad  as  all  that.  It's  simply  that  many 
people  here  have  nothing  else  to  do  except  talk — particularly 
the  women." 

"I  don't  know  about  that  last,  adorable  individual,"  Bessie 
usually  took  this  half-teasing  attitude  toward  her  father. 
"I'm  for  my  own  sex.  And  remember  that  though  Uncle 
Arthur  is  a  particular  lamb  of  mine, — why,  he  tried  to  say 
the  most  absurd  things  to  me  about  Adela.  I  wouldn't  have 
it.  I  simply  had  to  speak  to  him." 

Slade  grinned  at  this  and  then  laughed.  Dr.  Gedney 
smiled  his  thorough  amusement.  Bessie  smiled  secretly  at 
her  own  feminine  thoughts. 

Bessie  was  the  boss,  thought  Slade. 


CHAPTER  XIX:  ADELA  LOOKS  EIGHTEEN 

SLADE  and  Bessie  took  a  long  walk  on  Saturday.  That 
evening  Uncle  Arthur  came  to  dinner.  On  Sunday 
morning  Bessie  decided  to  forego  church  in  order  to  take 
Slade  over  to  Mrs.  Ventress's.  They  could  see,  anyway, 
whether  she  had  returned  from  Philadelphia. 

"Adela  never  goes  to  church/'  said  his  cousin  as  they  left 
the  house.  "She  doesn't  believe  in  churches.  She  says  there 
was  once  something  very  unhappy  in  her  life  over  which 
she  prayed  a  great  deal,  and  nothing  happened.  I  can  see 
why  she  doesn't  want  to  go.  Sometimes  I  don't  exactly 
know  why  7  go,  myself.  I  wonder.  Don't  you,  Slade?  I 
don't  really  believe  in  it  all  at  all." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  and  his  cousin  had  ever  got  upon 
the  topic  of  religion. 

"I  don't,"  returned  Slade  honestly.  "I  never  go  in  the 
city.  I  used  to  really  love  the  Christian  religion.  I  still 
admire  it,  in  a  way.  I  don't  care  for  the  squabbling  denomi 
nations.  I'd  rather  be  a  Catholic  if  I  were  anything.  It's  cer 
tainly  the  most  logical.  But  I'm  really  an  agnostic.  Father 
is.  It  seems  the  most  honest  to  me.  No,  I  don't  care  about 
churches  much.  If  the  Christian  religion  has  done  a  great 
deal  of  good  it's  also  done  a  great  deal  of  harm.  It  kills  the 
natural  kindness  and  honesty  in  so  many  people.  And  people 
use  it  as  a  club  and  a  bogie-man  to  get  their  own  way.  I 
don't  think  much  of  Christian  morality,  so-called." 

Bessie  thought  that  over. 

"That's  about  the  way  I  feel,"  she  said  finally.  "Only 
I  guess  I  like  the  service  better  than  you  do." 

"I  like  to  roar  hymns,"  said  Slade.  "Only  I  notice  the 
most  devout  people  don't  either  have  a  very  pleasant  time 

173 


174?         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

themselves  or  want  anyone  else  to  have  one.  When  you  see 
a  person  whose  religion  does  them  some  real  good  and  helps 
them  to  help  other  people,  well  I  suppose  that's  all  right. 
But  if  you  believe  there's  only  one  way  of  spiritual  salvation 
for  the  soul  you  ought  to  be  able  to  see  the  point  of  view  of 
a  Torquemada.  I  can  see  his  point  of  view  myself.  Only 
I  don't  agree  with  it.  Oh,  well,  don't  let  me  fill  you  up  with 
my  heresies,  Bess.  But  they're  all  so  afraid  of  something, 
afraid  that  if  they  don't  do  a  thing  some  one  particular  way 
something  will  happen  to  them.  And  that's  so  cowardly. 
Well,  nevertheless,  I  admire  the  bravery  of  Christ.  He 
turned  his  back  on  his  enemies  and  wrote  in  the  sand." 

Pastors  had  called  on  Dr.  Gedney.  He  had  been  absent- 
minded  and  vague  and  had  never  entered  their  churches. 
Religious  people  regarded  him  simply  as  a  harmless  old 
idiot  and  ceased  to  be  concerned  about  his  soul.  Bessie  was 
a  puzzle  to  them  also,  but  she  usually  came  to  church.  They 
said  among  themselves  that  she  was  a  nice  good  child  and 

that  it  was  a  Shame. 

*  *  * 

A  cool  Sunday  morning  for  late  July.  A  sky  of  light 
and  tremulous  blue.  A  garden  vivid  with  patches  and  blots 
of  colour,  pale  blue,  deep  blue,  velvet  purple,  shattering  crim 
son,  dull  gold,  licking  tongues  of  scarlet. 

A  lady  in  the  garden.  A  lady  alone.  In  a  wide  grey  hat, 
in  a  frock  of  figured  blue-grey  with  an  organdie  collar,  her 
pretty  feet  and  ankles  trimly  shod  with  grey.  She  moved 
about  her  garden  singing  an  old  song,  singing  it  softly. 

" — And  the  bonny  Earl  o'  Murray 
O  he  might  ha'  been  a  king!" 

Daintily,  dexterously  she  clipped  flowers  into  her  plaited 
basket. 

She  was  back  in  the  garden  under  the  apple-tree,  a  grace 
ful  sun-misted  figure  in  its  shade.  Her  singing  floated  and 
drifted  faintly  on  the  still  morning  air. 


ADELA  LOOKS  EIGHTEEN  175 

She  bent  over,  straightened,  turned,  came  picking  her  way 
daintily  toward  the  front  of  the  house. 

"Lang,  lang  may  his  lady 

Look  o'er  the  castle  doun 
Ere  she  see  the  Earl  o'  Murray 
Come   sounding  through  the  toun!" 

—  "Good  morning!" 

She  looked  up,  a  little  startled.  Then  she  smiled.  In 
Mrs.  Ventress's  smile  the  ordinarily  grave  expression  of  her 
face  broke  into  one  both  merry  and  childlike.  Smiling,  she 
suddenly  seemed  so  much  younger.  It  was  in  the  way  the 
corners  of  her  mouth  went  up  and  in  the  clear  and  innocent 
amusement  of  her  eyes.  Though  not  much  over  the  average 
height,  her  slimness  and  her  springlike  dress  gave  her  some 
what  the  appearance  of  a  tall  young  girl. 

"Hello !"  she  said  frankly  to  Slade. 

"I  came  past  with  Bessie.  You  didn't  see  us.  She  has  to 
run  over  to  Uncle  Arthur's  a  minute,  but  she'll  be  right 
back.  How  are  you  ?  It's  awfully  nice  to  see  you  again." 

He  extended  his  hand. 

"It's  nice  to  see  you.    How  have  you  been?" 

"Oh,  very  well,  indeed.  It's  been  hot,  of  course,  in  New 
York.  Still  I've  managed  to  worry  through.  You  look  nice 
and  cool  this  morning." 

"Yes,  it's  a  lovely  morning,  isn't  it  ?    Do  you  like  flowers  ?" 

She  extended  the  basket. 

"My,  they're  beautiful,"  said  Slade,  leaning  over.  "What 
was  that  you  were  singing  just  now?"  he  asked,  interested. 

"Oh,"  Mrs.  Ventress  laughed  apologetically.  "But  I  can't 
sing.  I  was  trying  to  sing  that  old  ballad,  'The  Earl  o' 
Murray'." 

"Sing  some  more,"  requested  Slade  forthrightly,  and  then, 
at  his  abruptness,  they  both  laughed  a  little  together. 

"But  do,"  said  Slade.    "Won't  you?" 

"Well,  I'll  try,"  returned  Mrs.  Ventress.     She  was  look- 


176          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

ing  at  him  as  honestly  as  a  child.    She  raised  her  bright  face 
and 

"Ye  highlands  and  ye  lawlands, 

O'  where  hae  ye  been; 
They  ha  slain  the  Earl  o'  Murr-rray 
And  laid  him  on  the  green " 

Slightly  swinging  the  plaited  basket,  she  sang  it  all  through, 
without  the  slightest  self -consciousness,  a  being  rejoicing  in 
clear  sunlight.  Her  voice  had  a  childlike  reediness,  but  she 
held  the  air  perfectly.  Slade  stood  silent  watching  her. 
Her  eyes  closed  as  she  sang. 

They  were  open  and  full  of  laughing  light. 

"But  how  nice  of  you  to  listen!  Did  you  like  it?"  she 
asked. 

"Did  I !"  said  Slade,  and  was  dumb. 

"They're  lovely,  those  old  things,  don't  you  think  so?" 
she  asked. 

"That  was,"  murmured  Slade,  looking  dazedly  away,  as 
if  he  had  seen  a  ghost.  "How  talented  you  are!" 

"I — oh,  no,  indeed !"  returned  Adela.  "You  know  I  can't 
sing.  I  can't  sing  for  sour  apples.  But,  good  Lord,  how  I 
do  love  it !" 

They  both  laughed  again. 

Bessie  came  in  at  the  gate.  She  hesitated  for  an  instant, 
came  across  the  grass  to  them. 

"O  Adela,  I  want  to  show  Slade  that  drawing  I  made  of 
you.  You  know  I  left  it  here.  Can  I  get  it?" 

"You  most  certainly  can.    Wait,  I'll  find  it  for  you." 

They  went  up  the  steps  and  into  the  house  together,  in 
that  sudden  intimate  conversation  so  ready  between  women. 

Slade  sat  down  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  porch  arid  began 
to  fill  his  pipe  from  a  circular  red-rubber  pouch.  After  it 
was  lit  he  drew  upon  it  lazily.  He  gazed  out  over  the 
hedge  at  the  green  sunny  fields  opposite,  at  the  rise  of  the 
Hill  and  the  white  gleam  of  the  Institute  afar. 

What  a  remarkable  being!  She  looked  about  eighteen, 
standing  there — singing. 


ADELA  LOOKS  EIGHTEEN  177 

He  relit  his  pipe  as  steps  scuffed  behind  him  on  the  porch. 

"Here  it  is.    Now  Slade,  don't  you  think  it's  good  ?" 

As  Bessie  bent  over  him  her  soft  hair  brushed  his  face, 
her  soft  young  cheek  touched  his.  He  examined  the  draw 
ing  intently.  It  was  excellent. 

In  it  Mrs.  Ventress  was  reclining  in  that  long  Chinese 
wicker  chair  up  on  the  porch.  She  was  leaning  on  one  elbow, 
her  face  half-turned  toward  you.  The  grave  contemplative 
expression  upon  the  face  was  perfect. 

"Darn  good/'  said  Slade  finally.  "Only  I've  seen  you  look 
merrier " 

He  twisted  round  to  his  left  to  look  at  Adela.  Bessie  re 
possessed  herself  of  the  drawing.  Adela  merely  smiled  and 
went  over  to  look  at  the  drawing  over  Bessie's  shoulder. 
Her  hand  fell  naturally  upon  that  shoulder  and  stayed  there. 
Bessie  was  looking  at  the  drawing  with  knitted  brows.  She 
tilted  it  once.  Now  she  looked  up  at  Adela  suddenly,  with 
dark  eyes.  "Shall  I  tear  it  up?"  she  asked. 

"Tear  it  up?  Most  certainly  not,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress. 
"Why  on  earth ?" 

"It  isn't  very  nice,"  Bessie  replied,  tossing  it  suddenly 
upon  a  chair.  "But  you  are,"  she  said,  gripping  her  friend's 
arms.  "You  are — you  are,  you  are!" 

As  swiftly  she  loosed  them  and  looked  at  Slade.  He  felt 
that  it  was  a  cold  little  look,  cold  and  dark.  He  wondered 
why. 

"It's  darn  good,  Bess,"  he  repeated.  "Darn  good. 
Really." 

"Oh,  I  can  do  better,"  remarked  his  cousin,  her  expression 
bright  again.  "I  will  some  day.  Well,  what  shall  we  do? 
Just  sit  and  talk?" 

"Well,  I  have  a  good  story,"  said  Slade.  "It's  called  'The 
Mysterious  Manuscript'." 

"Oh,  let's  hear  it,"  returned  Adela  seating  herself  on  the 
foot  of  the  long  wicker  chair  and  drawing  Bessie  down  beside 
her.  Slade  got  up  and  sat  down  again  nearer  them,  his  back 
against  a  porch  pillar.  He  began  to  tell  them  the  story  of 


178         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"The  Crystal  Castle".    He  arrived  at  the  point  of  Coryat's 
revelations. 

"This  man,"  Slade  went  on,  "is  a  friend  of  a  friend  of 
mine  in  town.  He's  been  doing  some  articles  for  The  New 

Age.     An   interesting  chap.     His  name's   Coryat.     Well, 
t   i) 

"What— Richard  Coryat?"  Mrs.  Ventress  asked  suddenly, 

"Why, — yes?     Do  you  know  him?" 

"I — I  have  some  friends  who  do." 

The  slip  had  been  clumsy.    She  bit  her  lip. 

Slade  was  surprised,  puzzled.  However,  he  recovered  and 
went  on  smoothly. 

"Richard  Coryat.  Well,  he  said  it  was  undoubtedly  the 
work  of  a  man  named  Richard  Terrill " 

Again  Adela  could  not  disguise  a  start.  But,  "Go  on!" 
she  begged  as  Slade  seemed  about  to  stop. 

No.  He  couldn't  understand  it.  There  was  something 
peculiar.  He  kept  his  eyes  on  hers.  Hers  turned  aside  to 
seek  Bessie's.  Bessie  was  looking  at  her  too,  but  only  in  a 
vague  way. 

"Well,  he  said  a  man  named  Terrill  who  had  written  one 
remarkable  book,  'Golden  Windfall',  must  certainly  be  the 
author  of  this  story.  Anyway,  I  had  him  in  afterward  to  see 
old  T.  B.  He  convinced  old  T.  B. 

"That's  what  they  call  the  editor  of  The  Colosseum" 
Bessie  supplied. 

"Unfortunately  though,  though  he  had  had  a  copy  of  the 
book "  Slade  paused. 

"Yes,  go  on,"  said  Adela,  smiling  naturally.  "I'm  inter 
ested." 

"Well,  he  had  lent  a  copy  to  a  friend.  The  friend  had 
gone  out  of  town.  I  don't  know  who  it  was.  Anyway,  it's 
been  impossible  as  yet  to  get  hold  of  a  copy ;  and  the  author 
of  the  manuscript  hasn't  shown  up.  But  I  do  believe  you've 
read  the  book,  or  know  Terrill,  or  something,  Mrs.  Ventress. 
You  look  so  queerly." 

"I?    Did  I?"  she  half-laughed.    "Well,  I'll  confess  that 


ADELA  LOOKS  EIGHTEEN  179 

I  have  read  the  book.  It's  rare,  but  wonderful.  It's  all 
this  Mr. what  was  it?  Coryat? — has  said  about  it." 

"You've  read  it?"  asked  Bessie  in  joy.    "Really?" 

"Really.  That's  why  I  started,  if  I  did  start.  Of  course 
I've  heard  of  Mr. — Coryat  as  one  of  the  admirers  of 
the  book — through  acquaintances,  mutual  acquaintances.  I 
know  nothing  of  the  author,  Richard  Terrill.  But  I  don't 
see  how  this  manuscript  you  speak  of,  Mr.  Breckinridge, 
could  possibly  be  by  the  same  person.  I  thought  he  was  sup 
posed  to  be  an  Englishman,  and  that  he  is  supposed  to  have 
died  some  years  ago?" 

"So  Coryat  said.  But  he's  not  sure  now.  He's  not  at 
all  sure.  He  says  there  are  tricks  of  style  and  a  general  at 
mosphere  that  only  Terrill  could  give  it.  Odd,  isn't  it?" 

"And  the  writer  of  the  manuscript  hasn't  come  in  at  all?" 
put  in  Bessie. 

"Hadn't,  up  to  the  time  I  left.  We  have  the  manuscript 
in  the  safe.  All  we  can  do  is  wait." 

Mrs.  Ventress  was  silent. 

"But  look  here,  you  haven't  your  copy  here  have  you?" 
asked  Slade  suddenly. 

"I  ?    Oh,  why  no.    No,  I'm  sorry,  I  haven't  it." 

"Well,  that's  too  bad,"  said  Slade.  "I  would  have  bor 
rowed  it,  with  your  permission,  to  show  to  old  T.  B." 

"I  think  it's  the  most  remarkable  thing"  said  Bessie.  She 
was  looking  at  her  friend  with  wondering  eyes.  She  slipped 
a  hand  in  Mrs.  Ventress's  hand. 

Adela  began  to  say,  "It  is — most  remarkable.  I  certainly 
hope  you  find  out  the  truth,  but  of  course  I  believe  myself 
that  Richard  Terrill  is  dead." 

"In  that  case,"  returned  Slade,  "it  might  be  somebody 
copying  his  work." 

"Oh,  no,  I  really  don't  think  anyone  could  copy  him,"  said 
Adela  hastily.  She  wanted  to  evince  interest,  but  she  wanted 
to  get  off  the  subject  of  Terrill.  It  was  thin  ice. 

What  nice  children  they  were,  though,  she  thought,  watch 
ing  them  pass  out  of  her  gate.  They  both  waved.  Slade  had 


180         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

not  worn  a  hat  and  the  sunlight  struck  a  gleam  from  his  hair 
like  that  on  old  furbished  brass.  His  ruddy,  sunburned  com 
plexion  and  well-cut  features  were  refreshing  and  clean.  He 
walked  with  the  elasticity  of  youth.  His  grey  clothes,  white 
soft-collared  shirt  and  grey  and  yellow  tie  became  him.  His 
dark-haired  cousin  in  her  apple-green  frock,  with  her  vivid 
colour  and  quick  graceful  gestures  was  a  charming  contrast. 
Slade  bent  his  head  toward  Bessie,  to  say  something,  and 
they  both  laughed.  What  nice  white  teeth  they  both  had ! 
Adela  smiled  at  herself.  Was  she  growing  into  a  sentimental 
match-maker  ? 

No.  They  were  just  nice  children,  both  rather  gloriously 
immature.  Bessie  was,  of  course,  in  love  with  Slade.  Slade 
had  his  stupid  side.  All  men  had  their  stupid  side.  As  for 

her — oh,  well !    She  had  known  one  man  at  least .    One 

— and  so  many  others.  It  was  pleasant  to  recline  here  in 
the  sunlight  and  the  leaf-shadows,  doing  nothing.  Marie 
and  the  cook  were  inside  seeing  to  small  necessities.  As  for 

her what  had  she  accomplished  down  here  so  far?    She 

had  rested.  She  had  written  a  little.  She  flushed  faintly 
when  she  thought  of  it.  She  had  intended  to  read  a  good 
deal  and  expand  her  philosophy.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
had  lazed.  She  must  have  been  more  tired  than  she  thought. 
Much  more  tired.  Tired  of  the  hectic  artificiality  of  the 
city,  tired  of  the  urgency  to  essentially  unimportant  industry, 
tired  of  "L"  and  surface-car  and  Subway  and  the  interfluc- 
tuant  masses  of  people  surging  in  from  nowhere  and  hurry 
ing  nowhither.  Tired  of  the  eternal  racket  of  the  streets 
and  the  unintermittent  impact  of  ocular  and  auditory  impres 
sions  upon  the  quivering  nerves.  Here,  there  was  silence 
and  the  white  road  outside  her  hedge — a  church-bell  mel 
lowed  by  distance.  Only  a  soothing  if  continuous  insect 
sound  throbbing  in  the  stillness  like  the  sifting  shifting  of 
fine  sand  shaken  rapidly  back  and  forth  in  a  tube  of  thin 
glass.  The  sunlight  drowsed  her.  An  occasional  "pr-reep, 
pr-reep"  from  some  bird  in  the  vines.  The  faint  sound  of 
tinware  in  the  kitchen.  She  relaxed  and  dreamed. 


ADELA  LOOKS  EIGHTEEN  181 

Perhaps  she  had  merely  been  overtired.  No,  she  knew  it 
was  deeper  than  that.  O,  if  only  he  had  lived!  As  she 
thought  of  him  she  recalled  the  other  life  too,  her  marriage. 
Good  heavens,  she  actually  had  not  thought  of  him  for  years! 
It  hadn't  been  his  fault  really,  she  supposed.  But  how  im 
possible  their  marriage  had  become.  Good  heavens  ! 

He  had  certainly  come  on  quite  well  as  an  illustrator  since 
then.  She  now  remembered  that  she  had  seen  a  page- 
advertisement  he  had  drawn,  recognising  his  technique  on 
the  back-cover  of  a  large  popular  magazine  over  a  year  ago. 
He  was  doubtless  perfectly  well-off,  if  he  got  commissions 
like  that.  Well,  it  had  been  as  much  her  fault  as  his — call 
it  that.  She  smiled  at  her  magnanimity.  He  was  probably 
with  that  big  syndicate  in  Chicago.  He  had  most  probably 
found  someone  else.  Good  lord,  how  long  ago  that  all 
seemed!  What  a  wild,  frightened,  bewildered,  but  deter 
mined  girl  had  turned  up  that  blowing  Fall  evening  at  Ethel 
Aspern's  on  Park  Avenue.  How  she  had  clung  to  Ethel 
for  weeks.  How  wonderfully  good  and  kind  Ethel  had 
been.  How  nearly  crazed  she  must  have  been,  she  herself, 
now  that  she  looked  back  upon  it.  No,  it  couldn't  have  gone 
on.  He  was  even  more  ill-adjusted  to  life  than  she  had  been 
then,  and  far  more  uncontrolled.  Then,  later,  had  come 
the  idyl.  But  idyls  didn't  last.  And  there  was  no  substi 
tute  for  his  love — never  could  be.  She  knew.  That  had  been 
the  one  perfect  thing — sealed  away.  If  he  had  lived . 

But  that,  anyway,  was  not  what  she  was  seeking.  What 
she  was  seeking  was  something  in  which  she  knew  that,  after 
all,  she  had  come  nearer  to  him  than  for  a  long  while;  yes, 
even  though  she  couldn't  talk  to  him  about  it.  And  she 
would  put  it  through.  She  would — for  him.  It  was  that. 
She  had  suddenly  realised  it.  It  was  for  him,  after  all.  It 
was  for  him  that  she  was  here — that  she  had  turned  sharp 
on  her  life  and  determined 


CHAPTER  XX:   SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION 

BESSIE  had  an  engagement  for  a  walk  with  one  of  her 
few  girl  friends  that  Sunday  afternoon. 

"Why  don't  you  go  over  and  see  Adela  ?"  she  herself  sug 
gested,  when  Doctor  Gedney  had  retired  to  his  study  after 
the  mid-day  dinner.  Bessie  had  set  herself  a  quixotic  task. 
Why  she  had  done  so  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea.  But 
in  it  she  experienced  a  Scaevolan  enjoyment.  It  seemed  a 
present  need  of  her  nature. 

Slade  felt  awkward.  "Maybe  I  will.  I  guess  I'll  take  a 
walk  over  toward  the  Institute  anyway.  Which  way  are 
you  girls  going?" 

"Oh,  Jean  wants  me  to  go  over  with  her  to  the  Wilder 
farm.  The  Wilder  girl's  sick  and  she's  taking  some  things 
over.  I  have  to  meet  her  at  the  corner  up  here.  I'm  sorry 
to  desert  you  this  way,  Slade;  but  wander  over  and  see 
Adela.  She's  nice.  You'll  have  a  good  time." 

With  a  bright  smile  but  an  enigmatic  glance,  she  was  gone. 

Well,  he  thought,  why  not? 

Mrs.  Ventress  was  not  on  her  porch.    He  rang  the  bell. 

Marie  smiled  and  nodded  at  him  and  indicated  the  north 
east  parlour.  A  moment  later  he  saw  Adela  in  the  hall. 
She  caught  sight  of  him. 

"Gracious,  what  did  Marie  put  you  in  there  for!  You 
look  so  very  polite  sitting  up  in  thai  straight  chair.  Come 
across  the  hall !  Where's  Bessie  ?" 

"She's  gone  over  to  the  Wilders'  with  a  friend.  She  sug 
gested  that  I  come  over.  I  hope  you  weren't  lying  down.  I 
haven't  disturbed  you,  have  I?" 

The  southwest  parlour  was  certainly  much  more  attrac 
tive.  The  blue  curtains,  the  grey-blue-figured  rug,  the  few 

182 


SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  183 

pictures,  the  flowers  in  the  big  bowl  on  the  table,  all  charming. 

"Oh,  no,  indeed!  I  never  lie  down  during  the  day.  I 
know  it's  the  custom  here  Sunday  afternoons,  but  I  never 
keep  customs.  Take  that  chair.  It's  much  the  most  com 
fortable." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Slade.  "I "  he  began.  For  a  mo- 

ment  he  could  think  of  nothing  to  say. 

She  still  wore  the  grey-blue  dress.  Her  brown  hair  with 
the  sunlight  in  it,  her  piquant  face,  her  intelligent  eyes,  her 
slim  graceful  figure  in  the  old  high-backed  chair,  her  pale 
hand  fingering  a  paper-cutter  upon  the  table, — he  felt  he 
would  like  to  sit  there  and  look  forever. 

Adela,  meeting  the  direct  gaze  of  his  eyes,  suddenly  real 
ised  that  she  had  known  this  since  that  Fourth  of  July  eve 
ning,  and  not  known  it.  It  was  too  bad.  What  was  she 
going  to  do  about  it? 

She  didn't  realise  that  she  was  also  thinking  it  nice  to 
be  looked  at  in  that  way.  It  was  the  same  expression  with 
which  Slade  had  gazed  into  space,  sitting  with  Coryat  up 
in  Christine's. 

Oh,  this  was  too  bad.  Why  would  they  do  it?  Couldn't 
you  be  friends  with  anybody — any  man.  This  boy,  this  child, 
this  infant.  He  changed  visibly  before  her  eyes.  He  sat  in 
knickerbockers  before  her,  with  a  smeary  freckled  face.  He 
sat  in  short  clothes  beseeching  her  with  galvanically  waving 
arms  and  the  same  bland  beatific  expression.  She  wanted  to 
pick  him  up  and  comfort  him. 

How  utterly,  preposterously  absurd!  She  bent  her  head 
slightly  to  hide  her  smile  at  herself.  She  brushed  an  imagi 
nary  thread  from  her  knee.  She  began  to  ask  him  what  he 
had  read  lately. 

Her  eyes  were  wide  open  and  perfectly  candid.  She  was 
trying  to  be  entirely  kind.  She  had  been  a  perfect  fool  to 
sing  to  him  this  morning. 

Such  a  child!  Why  on  earth  couldn't  he  see  that  Bes 
sie !  What  was  there  about  her?  When  love  wasn't 

what  she  wanted  at  all.  At  least,  she  wanted  something  she 


184          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

could  never  have  now,  wanted  someone  who  wasn't  there, 
never  could  be  ...  Mr.  Coryat  had  been  interested,  doubt 
less.  Doubtless.  Mr.  Coryat.  O  heavens  no!  Not  for  a 
good  deal. 

But  there  was  a  childlike  side  to  Adela,  and  she  was  quick 
to  pity. 

Her  tongue  turned  question  and  answer.  They  were  talk 
ing  about  Gilda  Varesi's  acting  in  "The  Jest".  They  were 
talking  of  modern  poetry. 

"Yes,  I've  read  a  good  deal,  off  and  on,"  said  Mrs.  Vent- 
ress.  "Robinson  interests  me  most.  He  seems  to  have  most 
to  say." 

"Don't  you  like  Frost?" 

"Oh,  of  course — 'one  could  do  worse  than  be  a  swinger 
of  birches'.  I  adore  it — and  his  philosophically  reticent  way 
of  presenting  tragedy." 

"Lindsay?" 

"Yes,  certainly.  'The  Broncho  that  would  not  be  broken 
of  dancing/  Splendid !  He's  superb — an  electrical  person." 

"But  then,  of  course,"  confessed  Mrs.  Ventress,  "I'm  one 
of  those  old-fashioned  people — old-fashioned  nowadays — 
who  still  swear  by  and  not  at  the  Oxford  Book." 

"O  good!"  exclaimed  Slade.  "So  am  I.  The  Scholar 
Gipsy " 

"Yes,  and  further  back,  too,"  returned  Adela.  "Don't 
forget  Drayton  or  Skelton. 

"'Near  to  the   silver   Trent 
Sirena  dwelleth '" 

She  began  to  quote  in  the  voice  Slade  remembered. 

"  'She  to  pearl  paragon 
Turneth  thy  gravel '  " 


He  had  found  the  name  for  her Sirena,  of  course.  He 

applauded  himself  inwardly. 

"But  you  must  be  a  poet  too,"  he  said  with  shining  eyes, 
after  a  short  appreciative  silence  following  her  quotation. 


SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  185 

"No  one  who  wasn't  could  repeat  those  things  like  that." 

Adela  shook  her  head. 

"I  couldn't  write  a  line  of  poetry  to  save  my  life,"  she 
said.  "It's  been  a  relief,  that's  all — from,  from  other 
things.  You  see  my  work,  what  writing  I've  ever  done,  has 
been  so  entirely  different.  After  all,  I'm  not  sorry  I  did 
it,"  she  added,  a  trifle  defiantly,  with  a  decisive  motion  of  her 
head,  "but  I've  been  rather  ruined  by  it.  Oh,  well,  let's  talk 
of  your  poetry.  Can't  you  quote  me  some  ?" 

"I — I  don't  think  I  will,  if  you  don't  mind,  so  soon  after 
Sirena,"  said  Slade.  "I  don't  believe  your  writing  has  been 
bad  at  all,  though.  What  have  you  written?  Why  won't  you 
tell  us?" 

Adela  shook  her  head  again. 

"It's  really  not  worth  talking  about.  Are  you  interested 
in  drawing,  though,  as  Bessie  is?  I'd  show  you " 

"Oh,  fine,"  answered  Slade.  "Do.  I'd  like  to  see  them 
so  much." 

The  next  half  hour  was  spent  over  a  portfolio.  Mrs. 
Ventress  took  a  chair  nearer  him. 

"This  is  something  I  could  never  do,"  said  Slade.  "Where 
did  you  study?" 

"Oh,  I  studied  at  one  time,  for  several  years,"  replied 
Mrs.  Ventress  vaguely. 

"But  this  is  the  best,"  she  reached  an  arm  across  his  and 
shook  one  sheet  out  from  between  two  others.  A  quiet, 
heart-thudding  paralysis  stole  over  Slade. 

"That's  awfully  good,"  he  said  in  a  moment,  rather  breath 
lessly. 

"Well,  I  did  learn  at  one  time  a  good  many  of  the  things 
soft  pencil  can  do;  though  I  couldn't  do  anything  as  good 
as  that  to-day.  Still,  I'm  glad  I've  taken  it  up  again.  You 
see,  I  could  never  have  been  a  really  good  draughtsman— 
or  draughtswoman,  whichever  you  say,"  she  ended,  smiling, 
closing  the  green  and  black  board  portfolio  and  tying  up  its 
black  strings.  "That's  all  too  evident.  But  I  had  consider 
able  ambition  at  one  time.  Then — well,  my  life  turned  a 


186          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

corner,  and  I  got  more  interested  in  writing.  But  I'm  glad 
I  did  draw  once,  if  only  that  it's  some  help  now  to  your 
cousin." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Bessie  appreciates  it.  You've  been 
simply  wonderful  to  her,  Mrs.  Ventress.  I  really  think  she 
has  a  genuine  gift.  Don't  you?" 

"I  do.  And  she's  lovely.  Remarkably  fine  and  sensitive," 
said  Adela,  reseating  herself  in  her  original  chair.  "I  hope 
you'll  help  her  all  you  can  to  get  to  New  York  and  get  a 
chance.  I  shall.  For  I  believe  her  father  is  very  nice  about 
it  and  wants  her  to  go,  when  she's  ready?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Uncle  Charles  is  really  a  brick.  Of  course  it's 
rather  sad  for  him  too.  You  see " 

"Yes,  I  know.    Bessie  has  told  me." 

There  was  a  short  silence. 

"Do  smoke,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress  then.  "I  know  you  want 
to.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  do  too.  You  wouldn't  be  shocked 
if  I  did?" 

"Certainly  not!"  said  Slade.  "Will  you  have  one  of 
mine?" — as  she  turned  to  look  about  on  the  table. 

"Oh,  thank  you !     I  will.     Oh,  Fatimas !     I  like  them." 

He  held  the  match.    He  lit  his  own. 

"I'm  not  an  addict,'  smiled  Adela.  "But  do  you  see  any 
possible  harm  in  women  smoking?" 

"Of  course  not,"  said  Slade.  "Though  it's  funny.  A 
friend  of  mine  has  something  to  do  with  the  Movies  and  he 
told  me  that  when  they  wanted  to  symbolise  badness  in  a 
woman,  in  a  film,  all  they  had  to  do  was  to  make  her  light 
a  cigarette.  Isn't  that  ridiculous?  He  said  there  was  only 
one  way  the  audience  would  ever  take  it." 

Mrs.  Ventress  smiled.  She  held  her  cigarette  the  English 
way,  between  forefinger  and  thumb.  She  held  it  daintily 
away  from  her.  Like  most  women  she  did  not  inhale. 

"But  you  don't  think  I'm  bad,  do  you  ?"  she  asked  naively. 

"Well,  hardly,"  rejoined  Slade.  He  had  never  seen  a  per 
son  more  fascinating  without  meaning  to  be. 


SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  187 

"Silly  of  me  to  say  that,"  said  Adela,  smiling  at  herself. 
"I'm  a  child.  I'm  afraid  I  have  a  pretty  silly  mind." 

"I  shouldn't  say  so,"  returned  Slade  earnestly.  "I  think 
you  have  one  of  the  most  remarkable  minds  I  ever  knew. 
Really." 

He  was  leaning  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and 
regarding  his  cigarette  with  great  intentness.  His  eyes  were 
morosely  thoughtful. 

"No,  I  haven't,"  said  Adela  quickly,  almost  sharply.  Her 
heart  was  touched,  though.  She  frowned.  Inwardly  she 
was  shaking  herself  energetically  and  roughly.  "I  really 
have  a  very  silly  mind  that  I'm  trying  to  turn  into  a  better 
one.  O  are  you  going?"  for  Slade  was  murmuring  some 
thing  and  rising.  "But  won't  you  let  me  make  you  some 
tea?" 

Well,  he  was  afraid  that .  Why,  yes,  he  would.  It 

was  the  pleasantest  tea  he  had  ever  had.  They  talked  of  the 
Theatre  Guild  and  the  situation  in  Ireland,  of  kings  and  cab 
bages — this  last  quite  literally,  for  Mrs.  Ventress  had  dis 
covered  an  interest  in  the  vegetable  garden  on  the  Battell 
place  as  well  as  in  the  flower-garden.  She  informed  him 
that  the  young  Dante  had  auburn  hair,  and  that  the  English 
never  shifted  their  forks  from  the  left  to  the  right  hand, 
that  the  Irish  name  of  Patrick  was  principally  in  honour  of 
General  Patrick  Sarsfield  of  Limerick  fame,  not  a  tribute 
to  St.  Patrick,  that  W.  L.  George's  full  first  names  were 
Walter  Leonard,  and  that,  in  her  opinion,  he  did  not  under 
stand  women;  that  Slade  ought  to  see  the  Cellini  cup  in 
the  Metropolitan  and  that  she  shared  his  delight  in  Vermeer ; 
and  all  this  as  an  entertaining  and  unscholastic  by-product 
of  smooth  and  occasionally  witty  conversation.  The  quaint 
reconditeness  of  her  mind  interested  him  immensely.  She 
could  kindle  with  enthusiasm  over  paintings  and  books,  she 
could  flash  with  a  sudden  anger  at  political  tyranny,  she 
could  laugh  as  delightedly  as  a  child,  she  could  suddenly 
turn  as  grave  as  a  nun.  Through  it  all  there  was  not  the 
slightest  unnaturalness.  And  in  some  strange  way  that  he 


188          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

did   not  understand   Bessie   was  always   entering   into   the 
conversation. 

"I'm  afraid  you  don't  quite  see  how  remarkable  she  is," 
said  Adela.  "It's  funny  that  I  should  seem  to  see  it  so  much 
more  clearly.  Why  is  it?  Bessie  is  quite  a  little  wonder. 
She's  going  far.  You  watch  her." 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  some  remark  like  this,  as  they  sat 
near  each  other  behind  the  wicker-trayed  wheeled  tea-table, 
that  the  door-bell  rang  peremptorily  from  the  hall.  Marie 
must  have  been  out  of  the  house,  for  it  rang  again,  and  then, 
before  Mrs.  Ventress  could  rise,  a  black-dressed,  close  black- 
bonneted  figure  stood  opposite  the  door,  peering  first  into 
the  northeast  parlour.  She  turned  almost  immediately 
and  peered  directly  into  the  room  in  which  they  were  sitting. 
It  was  Miss  Crome. 

"Oh,  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  murmured  hastily  and 
recoiled  in  a  positive  flutter.  Both  Slade  and  Mrs.  Ventress 
had  risen,  the  latter  putting  down  her  cigarette  in  the  saucer 
of  her  teacup. 

"Oh,  won't  you  come  in,  Miss  Crome?  This  is  Mr. 
Breckinridge.  Do  come  in  and  have  some  tea." 

"No — no,  thank  you,"  stammered  Miss  Crome.  "I — I  was 
just  passing.  I  merely  thought  I  would  call.  No.  No,  in 
deed,  thank  you.  I  must  be  going.  I  just  stepped  in — the 
bell — no,  I  really  must  be  going.  I  am  so  sorry.  I  did  not 
mean  to  intrude.  I  really  did  not.  I  am  afraid  that  I  must 
be  going." 

The  words  came  from  her  rapidly,  as  she  averted  her 
face.  She  had  vanished  from  the  doorway  and  was  at  the 
gate  by  the  time  Mrs.  Ventress  had  got  into  the  hall.  Her 
black  bonnet  was  bobbing  rapidly  along  the  box-hedge.  She 
seemed  to  accelerate  her  head  and  did  not  look  back.  Mrs. 
Ventress  stood  in  her  doorway,  with  Slade  just  behind  her. 
Her  face  was  puzzled  and  somewhat  irritated. 

"That  is  the  most  peculiar  woman,"  said  Adela.  "What 
on  earth!  What  on  earth  do  you  suppose  was  the  matter 
with  her?" 


SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  189 

" — the  most  remarkable  thing  I  ever  saw "  commented 

Slade,  well-intentioned,  if  somewhat  inaccurate. 

"Why  do  you  suppose  she  wouldn't  come  in  and  have  some 
tea  ?"  questioned  Adela,  looking  at  him  blankly. 

Slade  shook  his  head.  "I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  he. 
His  forehead  was  a  little  flushed  with  rising  anger.  "Idiot !" 
he  muttered,  his  jaw  setting.  "I'm  terribly  sorry " 

"There's  nothing  to  be  sorry  for,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress 
practically.  "Only  it  annoys  me  to  have  that  person  act  as 
if  she  had  discovered  something  improper  about  me.  It's 
rather  idiotic.  Come  back  and  have  some  more  tea.  I  sup 
pose  she  thought  it  perfectly  awful  to  find  me  smoking  a 
cigarette  on  Sunday,  in  the  company  of  a  young  and  not 
unattractive  male." 

Slade  flushed  a  little  more.  Then  he  laughed.  Mrs. 
Ventress  laughed  with  him,  genuinely. 

"Come  back  and  have  some  more  tea,"  she  advised. 
"Maybe  Bessie  will  drop  in  after  her  walk.  If  I  am  being 
very  wicked  this  afternoon  I  might  as  well  continue.  Miss 
Crome,  after  all,  may  as  well  be  forgotten.  She  seems  to 
me  rather  more  impertinent  than  pertinent." 

Adela  had  analysed  Miss  Crome's  emotions  exactly,  ex 
cept  that  she  had  not  credited  her  with  the  secret  high 
delight  now  almost  stifling  her  heart  with  its  intensity. 
"Cigarettes — on  Sunday"  she  hissed  from  between  properly 
pursed  lips.  Her  small  teeth  gritted.  "CYgarettes  on  Sun 
day!  .  .  .  And  that  young  man!"  she  added,  with  a  sig 
nificant  balefulness  in  the  thought  of  Slade's  sex.  "That 
young  man!" 

She  hugged  the  truth  to  herself  deliciously.  She  almost 
staggered  in  her  walk  with  the  choiceness  of  her  private 
information.  It  so  perfectly  bore  out — well,  everything. 

She  was  passing  Mrs.  Hoyle's  large  iron-fenced  lawn.  It 
was  four  o'clock.  Across  the  lawn  she  suddenly  noted  a 
stout  figure  proceeding  up  Ivy  Street.  It  turned  the  corner 
of  the  fence  into  the  Axter  Road  and  came  toward  her. 

She  had  thought  it  was  Arthur  Pollock,  at  first.     Who 


190          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

could  it  be,  though?     It  was  certainly  no  one  she  knew. 

It  was  a  large  man  in  a  rather  flashy  grey-checked  suit. 
He  had  dove-coloured  spats  to  his  now  dusty  brown  shoes. 
He  wore  a  round-crowned  Panama.  As  he  came  nearer  she 
noted  the  gold  pin  in  his  peacock-green  necktie,  the  seal 
ring  on  the  third  finger  of  his  left  hand,  the  bright  gold  and 
red  cigar-band  on  the  cigar  he  rolled  in  his  mouth,  the  flicker 
of  his  light  cane.  His  face  was  ruddy,  jowl  and  double 
chin  sufficiently  evident.  She  was  for  slipping  rapidly  past 
him,  but  he  raised  his  hat  and  spoke  to  her. 

"Pardon  me,  Madam,"  he  held  the  cigar  with  the  hat. 
"Lookin'  for  a  Miss  Ventress'  place.  Understand  it's  along 
here.  Could  you  direct  me?" 

He  beamed  upon  her.  He  puffed  from  his  walk,  blowing 
out  his  cheeks. 

"Oh — why  certainly,  yes,  you — you  go  right  along — the 
way  you're  going.  You  pass  two  streets,  and  it's  the  last 
house,  the  corner  lot,  just  before  you  reach  the  Farm  Road. 
Are — are  you  a  friend  of  hers?" 

"Friend?  Oh,  yes,  say  so,  old  friend,"  he  vouchsafed  af 
fably.  "Right  up  along  here  ?  Thanks.  Much  obliged." 

Miss  Crome  tried  to  incline  her  head  with  slow  dignity. 
She  achieved  a  bob.  At  the  corner  she  turned  and,  trepi- 
datingly,  found  the  gentleman  looking  back  at  her.  She 
hurried  past  the  protecting  corner  of  Mrs.  Hoyle's  house; 
then  slowed  her  steps,  stopped,  fluttered.  Her  hand  went 
up  to  her  back  hair.  She  retraced  her  steps  slowly,  cau 
tiously,  gazing  at  the  ground  as  if  for  something  she  had 
lost.  She  peered  past  the  corner  of  Mrs.  Hoyle's  house,  ad 
vancing  inch  by  inch,  head  down,  eyes  on  the  cinder  foot 
path,  looking  for  the  imaginary  lost  hairpin. 

Inch  by  inch.  He  wasn't  there.  She  came  boldly  out 
beyond  Mrs.  Hoyle's  house  and  peered  up  the  road.  He 
was  trudging  along  steadily,  swinging  his  cane.  Miss 
Crome's  bosom  boiled  with  excitement.  What  was  hap 
pening?  Outraged  husband,  discovered  lover, — her  mind 
leapt  to  this  immediately,  and  yet,  even  to  her  it  seemed 


SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  191 

a  little  improbable.  Or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  perhaps, 
it  seemed  a  little  too  good  to  be  true.  But  what  and  who 
and  why?  Her  mind  bristled  with  interrogation  points. 
She  had  advanced  to  the  corner  of  the  fence  before  she 
knew  it.  He  was  not  looking  back.  He  was  in  his  stride, 
swinging  along  under  the  occasional  maples,  quite  brandish 
ing  his  stick,  though  in  a  wholly  insouciant  fashion, — turn 
ing  his  head  to  look  out  over  the  fields,  followed  by  a  thin 
wavering  trail  of  cigar-smoke. 

He  had  passed  Sycamore,  Poplar,  diminishing  in  the  dis 
tance.  But  the  road  took  an  almost  imperceptible  rise  at 
this  point,  enough  to  keep  him  in  view.  Miss  Crome  could 
see  where  the  Battell  hedge  began.  She  distinctly  saw  him 
stop  midway  along  it,  disappear. 

She  would  go  back  and  call  on  the  Rogers.  They  had  the 
next  house  to  Mrs.  Ventress's,  separated  on  that  side  by  a 
screen  of  trees.  But  as  she  hesitated,  she  perceived  another 
distant  figure  coming  down  the  Axter  Road,  a  slimmer  fig 
ure,  straw-hatted,  walking  slowly.  It  passed  the  Rogers 
as  Miss  Crome  bristled  back  to  the  protection  of  Mrs. 
Hoyle's  house.  It  turned  into  Poplar  Street  and  disap 
peared.  That  Mr.  Breckinridge,  of  course, — that  young 
man!  What  had  happened?  Miss  Crome  suddenly  per 
ceived  Mrs.  Hoyle  beckoning  her  from  between  the  curtains 
of  a  front  window.  The  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Hoyle 
came  out  on  the  porch. 

"I  saw  you  passing,  and  stopping,  Sophia.  Have  you  lost 
something?"  she  called. 

But  the  something  Miss  Crome  was  seeking  she  had  no 
intention  of  losing. 

"Just  a  hairpin/  she  replied.     "I've  got  it  though/' 

"Come  in  and  have  a  cup  of  tea,"  said  Mrs.  Hoyle.  At 
the  invitation  Miss  Crome  almost  bounced  through  the  gate. 
From  the  side  window  of  the  Hoyle  parlour,  by  skillful 
manoeuvering,  she  felt  sure  she  could  see  the  return  of  the 
stout  loudly-dressed  man.  Of  course,  he  might  go  down 
the  Farm  Road.  That  was  really  the  quickest  way  back  to 


192          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

the  Station.  But  she  must  take  that  chance.  She  wondered 
where  he  had  come  from?  While  sipping  her  tea  she  in 
quired  casually  as  to  evening  trains  to  the  Junction. 

"Why,  so  far  as  I  know,  Sophia,  there's  only  the  one 
every  Sunday  evening,"  returned  Mrs.  Hoyle.  "That  one 
comes  through  here  'bout  eight  o'clock." 

"Of  course.  Of  course,"  said  Miss  Crome,  nodding  with 
pursed  lips.  She  was  not  going  to  spoil  her  secret  until 

she  had  acquired  more  evidence.  This  new  development . 

There  was  plenty  of  time. 

He  would  have  to  stay  in  town  till  eight  o'clock.  Would 
he  have  supper  with  Mrs.  Ventress?  What  could  be  his 
errand?  It  was  simply  too  exciting.  Miss  Crome's  teacup 
trembled  in  her  hand  till  Mrs.  Hoyle  enquired  whatever 
was  the  matter  with  her.  Miss  Crome  declared  that  there 
was  nothing — absolutely  nothing.  She  had  never  felt  better 
in  her  life.  Which  was,  to  be  sure,  no  less  than  the  truth. 

Slade  had  been  taking  his  leave  when  the  stout  figure 
swung  in  at  the  gate.  He  turned  on  the  steps  as  the  gate 
clicked.  He  heard  Adela's  breath  indrawn.  He  turned 
again  to  find  her  staring  with  some  perturbation  at  the 
stranger.  Slade  lingered. 

"Pardon  me"  began  the  man.    "How  do " 

"Yes,"   said   Mrs.    Ventress   rather   hurriedly  to    Slade. 

"Yes,  good-bye,  good-bye,  do  come  in  again,  Mr.  Breckin- 
ridge!" 

It  would  undoubtedly  be  best  for  him  to  go.  He  took  in 
the  bland  stoutness  of  the  stranger,  and  his  slight  leeri- 
ness,  with  dislike.  But  he  went  out  of  the  gate,  after  bid 
ding  a  formal  good-bye.  He  glanced  once  over  the  hedge. 
The  stranger  was  ascending  the  porch  steps.  Slade  heard, 

"Well,  how  do,  Miss " 

He  walked  off  slowly,  wondering. 

He  wondered  considerably.  Evidently  not  her  husband. 
In  so  many  ways,  what  a  remarkable  afternoon !  How  much 
was  he  in  love  with  her?  But  who  on  earth  was  the  stout 
person?  Oh,  probably  just  someone  he  had  never  seen  be- 


SIRENA  UNDER  SUSPICION  193 

fore,  who  lived  in  Tupton.  But  he  didn't  look  like  a  Tupton 
character!  He  bore  unmistakable  earmarks  of  the  city. 
Cheap  though.  What  on  earth  had  he  to  do  with  Mrs. 
Ventress  ? 

She  was  certainly  one  of  the  most  attractive  women  he 
had  ever  met.  Was  she  still  married?  She  was  so  fine, 
so  absolutely  sincere,  so  pretty,  so  wise,  so  witty.  But  of 
course  she  couldn't  be  interested  in  him  in  the  slightest. 
Being  kind. 

What  on  earth  was  that  woman  doing  down  by  the  Hoyle's 
fence?  It  certainly  had  looked  like  Miss  Crome. 

As  he  approached  the  Gedney  house,  after  turning  into 
Poplar,  he  saw  Bessie  coming  up  the  street  from  the  op 
posite  direction.  He  waved  to  her.  She  moved  through 
the  sun-speckled  shadow  of  the  tall  horse-chestnut  trees. 
Slade  was  first  at  the  gate  and  waited  for  her.  She  was 
somewhat  dusty  and  breathless. 

"Find  your  friend  all  right?  Have  a  nice  walk?"  he 
smiled. 

"Yes.  Oo,  I'm  tired  though.  Have  a  nice  time  at 
Adela's?" 

"Yes.  I  went  over.  She  showed  me  some  of  her  draw^ 
ings.  She  certainly  is  awfully  nice." 

Bessie  gave  him  a  keen  glance. 

"She's  a  darling,"  she  said,  though  with  a  rather  prim 
mouth.  She  ran  up  the  steps  quickly,  Slade  following  at 
his  leisure.  He  was  still  wondering  about  the  stout  gen 
tleman  in  the  rather  loud  suit. 


CHAPTER  XXI:    ON  A  QUIET  EVENING 

JASON  DUFFITT  was  eating  a  late  cold  supper  that 
Pansie  had  left  for  him  in  the  ice-box  when  his  door 
bell  rang.  He  had  been  nervous  about  all  sounds  lately, 
and  it  was  a  queer  hour  for  anyone  to  call  on  him.  A  figure 
of  stout  proportions  stood  in  the  shadow  of  the  vines  of  the 
porch. 

"You  don't  remember  me,  I'll  bet,"  said  the  broad  fig 
ure,  having  removed  a  round-crowned  panama  and  applied 
a  coloured  silk  handkerchief  to  a  beady  brow.  It  extended 
a  pudgy,  broad-fingered  hand.  "But  I  seen  your  name  on 
your  office  and  asked  round.  Gotta  take  that  eight-ten  out 
o'  here.  H'are  ye,  Jase,  anyway.  Remember  me?" 

Jason  came  out  of  the  door,  started  to  shake  his  head. 
Then, 

"Why,  sure,  sure,  Podge.  Sure  I  do.  Gosh,  I  ain't  seen 
you  fer  five  or  six  years,  must  be.  Well,  if  this  ain't  funny. 
Comical.  How's  the  world  been  treatin'  you  anyway? 
Come  in!  I  was  jest  gettin'  m'self  a  snack.  Have  any- 
thin'?  (He  slowly  closed  one  eye.)  No?  Thanks,  don't 
mind  if  I  do,"  as  he  accepted  a  cigar.  "Set  down,  Podge. 
Well,  man,  you're  lookin'  fine.  Gosh,  if  this  ain't  comical !" 

The  screen-door  had  flacked  to  behind  them.  Some  ani 
mated  conversation  ensued. 

Miss  Crome's  vigil,  though  she  stayed  at  Mrs.  Hoyle's 
almost  till  dinner-time,  had  been  totally  unsuccessful.  He 
had  stayed  at  Mrs.  Ventress's  to  dinner.  He  would  be  tak 
ing  that  eight  o'clock  train  after.  Miss  Crome  bade  her 
hostess  farewell,  descended  Ivy  Street  and  crossed  Market 
to  Oak.  She  got  herself  some  supper  about  six-thirty  and 
had  occasion  to  wander  up  past  the  Post-Office  to  the  Sta- 

194 


ON  A  QUIET  EVENING  195 

tion  about  three-quarters  of  an  hour  later.  She  wandered 
back  again  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  meeting  several  ladies 
with  whom  she  stopped  to  chatter  for  considerable  periods. 
Nearing  Oak  again  she  nearly  ran  into  the  individual  of 
her  real  search  just  turning  out  of  it.  To  her  surprise  she 
saw  that  he  was  walking  with  Jason  Duffitt. 

"How  do,  Miss  Crome,"  said  the  latter  in  passing.  He 
tipped  his  faded  straw,  and  his  companion  lifted  a  panama 
and  nodded  affably  enough  in  recognition. 

"Who's  that  female,  Jase?  She  directed  me  up  there 
to — to  Miss — er — Ventress 

"Mrs.  Ventress?"  Duffitt  almost  halted.  Then,  with  a 
nervous  look  in  his  eyes,  "That  who  you  were  callin'  on?'' 

His  companion  remembered  Adela's  parting  words.  "I 
am  extremely  sorry  but  I  trust  you  to  keep  my  secret/' 
He  had  promised.  Still,  it  riled  him.  It  certainly  did  rile 
him.  He  had  hoped  so . 

"Yeah,"  he  said  uninformatively.  "Know  her?"  His 
eyes  looked  keenly  at  his  companion,  an  old  school  friend. 

"Sure,"  said  Duffitt,  recovering  somewhat  from  suspicion. 
"Rented  her  that  house.  Comes  from  N'York.  What  do 
you  know  about  her?" 

"She's  all  right.  Guess  you  found  that  out  before  you 
rented  her  the  house  didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  sure.  Good  references.  Perf'ly  sat'sfactry.  But 
there's  been  a  lotta  talk  about  her.  Money  end's  been  all 
reglar  enough.  But  she's  a  queer  one,  sorta.  People  don't 
like  her.  There's  somethin'  queer " 

"How's  that?" 

"Well,  it  ain't  my  place  to  say  nothin',  perhaps ;  but  she's 
got  queer  opinions,  and  who's  her  husband  anyway,  an' 
where  is  he?  I  got  talkin'  to  her  one  day.  She's  got  queer 
opinions." 

His  secret  fears  as  to  the  upshot  of  his  recent  assininity 
had  never  materialised.  Adela  had  made  no  sign.  From 
day  to  day  he  had  breathed  more  freely  and  gone  about 
his  business.  Still,  he  felt  that  something  was  hovering 


196          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

over  him,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  let  a  chance  slip  to  insinu 
ate  things  opposed  to  the  real  truth  if  he  built  up  thereby 
some  kind  of  a  wall  of  defence. 

"Funny  ideas.  She  don't  seem  to  me  a  good  infloonce 
on  this  town " 

"Aw,  that's  all  yuh  know,  Jase.  She's  all  right.  Ye're 
crazy.  She's  all  right.  Why,  she's " 

He  stopped.  He  saw  that  in  saying  anything  further  he 
wouldn't  be  keeping  his  promise.  Still,  he  was  riled.  As 
train-time  got  nearer  and  he  plainly  saw  that  he  was  de 
parting  with  his  confident  plan  utterly  ruined,  it  certainly 
riled  him  and  worked  him  the  wrong  way. 

So,  "Course  there  is  a  kinda  mystery,"  he  hinted,  his 
conscience,  it  must  be  said,  twingeing  him.  After  all  he 
was  not  at  all  a  bad-hearted  person.  But  women  were  cer 
tainly  aggravating. 

Duffitt  was  on  him  like  a  flash. 

"What  say?     Kinda  mystery?" 

"Well,"  said  the  stout  man,  pulling  on  his  cigar.  But 
no — should  he  betray  her.  Dirty.  Still — business  was  busi 
ness.  Might  result  in . 

"That  name "  he  said.  They  had  come  to  the  station 

platform  and  he  set  down  upon  it  the  light  bag  he  had  picked 
up  at  the  Conestoga  House.  The  two  men  stood,  hearing  the 
far  whistle  of  the  approaching  train,  feeling  the  faint  vibra 
tion  of  it,  coming  round  the  curve  from  Barrack  Falls. 

"Yes?"  asked  Duffitt,  teetering  and  waving  a  greeting  to 
a  wandering  acquaintance.  "Yes,  well,  what  about  her 
name  ?" 

The  train  was  near.  The  hiss  of  air  brakes  and  the  loud 
rumbling  racket  of  its  approach  almost  drowned  out  the 
stout  man's  words,  as  he  hitched  up  his  bag.  The  black 
puffing  engine  had  slid  to  a  stop  beyond  them  before  he 
had  made  his  meaning  quite  clear. 

"That  name  Ventress.  That  ain't  her  real  name.  That's 
all  I'll  tell  ye,"  he  blurted  out.  "Well,  s'long,  Jase.  S'long. 
Any  time  y'  git  t'  N'York  look  me  up." 


ON  A  QUIET  EVENING  19T 

He  had  heavily  climbed  the  steps  and  was  waving  from 
the  moving  train.  Duffitt  stood  and  stared  after  its  tail- 
lights,  as  it  clanged  slowly  up  Market  Street.  So  many 
thoughts  were  working  within  him  that  he  had  forgotten 
to  wave  back. 

He  met  Miss  Crome  again  opposite  Elm  Street.  Miss 
Crome  seemed  to  be  especially  peripatetic  this  evening.  His 
eyes  lit  as  they  fell  upon  her.  He  stopped  to  talk. 

"What  d'ye  know  about  that,  Miss  Crome?"  he  asked, 
after  a  weighty  exposition.  He  could  not  keep  a  note  of 
exultation  out  of  his  voice.  "Fact  though.  This  feller's 
'n  ole  f  rien'  o'  mine.  Said  he  wasn't  at  lib'ty  to  tell  me  why 
he  was  down  here.  I  know  he's  in  some  big  corp'ration 
up  in  New  York,  but  he  acted  indef'nite.  Wouldn't  tell  me 
his  business.  Finally  though  he  comes  out  with  that,  just  as 
he  was  gettin'  on  th'  train.  Sounds  mighty  queer,  don't  it? 
Ain't  her  rele  name.  Whaddya  know  about  that  anyway?" 

Miss  Crome's  head  swam  that  night  as  she  tried  to  com 
pose  herself  for  sleep.  She  felt  that  she  was  in  the  midst 
of  the  most  throbbing  melodrama.  She  was  a  little  fright 
ened,  in  fact,  by  some  of  the  suspicions  aroused  in  her 
breast.  Mr.  Duffitt's  friend  had  had  supper  at  Mrs.  Ven- 
tress's.  He  had  stayed  there  from  four  o'clock  until  nearly 
half -past  seven.  What  his  errand  had  been  no  one  knew. 
He  had  conveyed  the  startling  information  that  Mrs.  Vent- 
ress's  apparent  name  was  not  her  real  name.  What  did  his 
acquaintance  with  her  signify?  And  what  of  this  young 
Mr.  Breckinridge  she  was  most  evidently  trying  to  lead 
astray?  What  of  it  all?  What  of  it  all  indeed?  Miss 
Crome's  head  began  to  throb  till  she  had  to  arise  and  hunt 

for  the  squat  blue  bottle  of  bromo-seltzer. 
*  *  * 

Meanwhile  Slade  and  his  cousin  Bessie  had  passed  a  quiet 
evening.  He  was  puzzled  certainly  by  the  later  develop 
ments  of  his  visit  to  Mrs.  Ventress's,  but  he  explained  the 
appearance  of  the  stranger  acceptably  enough  to  himself  by 


198          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

the  phrase,  "None  of  my  business — why  shouldn't  she  have 
a  caller?" 

That  evening  Uncle  Arthur  had  asked  them  all  to  his  house 
to  dinner,  and  now  Slade  and  Bessie  had  been  strolling  down 
dim-lit  Sycamore  Street.  They  had  stood  on  the  other  side 
of  Market  as  the  evening  train  went  by.  Slade  saw  a  man's 
face  he  thought  he  recognised  at  one  window.  The  tail- 
lights  dwindled  down  the  street. 

"It's  sad,  isn't  it,"  Bessie  said  in  a  small  voice,  as  if  to 
herself.  Her  head  was  turned  away.  Slade  was  roused  from 
one  of  his  reveries. 

"Sad?    What?    How  do  you  mean,  Bess?" 

"Oh,  you'll  think  it  silly.  That  train  made  me  sad  for  a 
minute.  Listen,  you  can't  hear  it  now.  The  sound  of  the 
bell's  dying  over  the  bridge." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,  though.  I've  lain  awake  listen 
ing  to  the  whistle  of  trains  in  the  night — going  somewhere." 

"You're  nice  not  to  laugh,  Slade,"  her  voice  was  soft- 
"Oh,  my,  how  much  easier  it  is  for  men  than  it  is  for 
women !" 

Slade  did  not  even  smile  at  that.    She  went  on  with  a  rush, 

"Men  can  pick  up  and  'pull  out'  as  they  call  it.  Men  can 
make  their  lives  what  they  want  them.  Men  can  go  away 
to  other  places  and  live  as  they  want  to.  It's  all  right  for 
men"  There  was  scorn  in  her  emphasis.  "We're  supposed 
to  stay  around  and  keep  house  and  look  pretty." 

Her  cousin  had  never  heard  anything  like  this  from  her 
before.  Her  tone  hurt  him,  for  her.  He  dug  the  toe  of  his 
shoe  in  the  edge  of  the  road  and  looked  down. 

"Yes,  I  guess  that's  about  it,"  he  said  gruffly. 

"Well,  I  am  going  to  get  to  New  York  and  I  am  going 
to  make  my  living  and  live  as  I  want  to.  You  see  if  I  don't," 
said  Bessie  decidedly.  "Only,  what  on  earth  will  I  do  about 
father?" 

"The  whole  trouble  is  he's  such  a  perfect  dear"  she  went 
on.  "What  would  he  ever  do  without  me?  Just  what? 
That  may  sound  conceited,  but  it's  really  not.  I  try  to  do 


ON  A  QUIET  EVENING  199 

things  for  him  and  amuse  him.  I  do  try.  He  would  miss 
me  around  the  house.  Of  course  he  has  enough  to  live  on 
the  rest  of  his  life,  without  his  doing  anything,  but  he  just 
shuts  himself  up  all  the  time  with  his  books  and  reads  and 
reads.  That's  what  he  likes,  I  know, — that's  what  makes 
him  happy.  But  he  depends  on  me  too.  I  can't  think  of 
him  as  all  alone  in  that  house,  even  with  Uncle  Arthur  so 
near,  all  alone  and  missing  me.  He'd  do  it  for  me  I  know. 
Oh,  well,  Slade,  you  have  troubles  of  your  own.  After  all, 
I've  got  a  lot  to  live  yet ;  and  father's  not.  I  can  help  my 
self,  he  can't.  I  shouldn't  yelp." 

"You're  not  yelping,"  said  Slade.  "I  see.  I  understand. 
I  guess  I  never  gave  it  much  thought.  I  get  selfish.  But, 
listen,  Bess,  it  can  be  fixed  up.  I'm  sure.  It  will  all  come 
right." 

"Just  how?" 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  dark  and  brooding  eyes. 

"Gertrude  took  it — her  happiness.  Poor  Gertrude.  She 
broke  away.  But  I  haven't  Gertrude's  excuse.  You  see  I 
know  all  about  it.  I — I've  pieced  it  all  together.  I've  drawn 
it  out  of  father  bit  by  bit,  though  he  firmly  believes  he's 
never  told  me  anything.  I've  done  a  lot  of  thinking  about 
Gertrude.  I  don't  blame  her.  Her  mother  was  too  much 
for  her — and  too  much  for  father  too,  for  that  matter. 
And  Gertrude  must  have  been  different  from  me — wilder. 
O  Slade,  do  you  really  think  she  ever  found  her  happiness  ?" 

He  had  never  known  his  cousin  in  such  a  grave  mood. 
Usually  there  was  merely  affectionate  bantering  between 
them.  Bessie  was  not  the  kind  that  told  her  troubles.  Now 
her  confidence  in  him  touched  him. 

"I  certainly  hope  so.    I  believe  so,"  he  stammered. 

"But  you  don't  really,  do  you?"  The  dark  eyes  searched 
his.  Not  a  child  but  a  woman  was  questioning  him.  "You 
think — and  I  believe — I  believe — she's — dead." 

The  last  word  was  only  breathed.  They  turned  slowly  and 
re-entered  Sycamore.  Slade  was  still  looking  at  the  ground. 

"Well,  even  if  she  were,  Bessie,"  he  said  finally  and  softly, 


200          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"there's  no  harm  in  believing  she  was  happy  in  the  life  she 
made  for  herself." 

"I  wonder,"  he  said  after  a  while,  pondering.  "I  wonder 
if  I  could  ask  you  something?" 

She  glanced  at  him  quickly  and  was  away  from  his  shoul 
der  to  the  inner  edge  of  the  path.  She  halted  facing  him. 

"What  is  it?  Gee,  I'm  sorry,"  murmured  Slade,  halting 
too. 

"No,  go  on,"  said  Bessie  in  a  dry  voice. 

"Why,  I  was  only  going  to  say,  I  wonder — you  see 
Father  has  a  theory " 

She  was  in  step  with  him  again,  they  were  resuming  their 
slow  walk. 

"Father  has  this  theory,"  continued  Slade  slowly,  "that 
Uncle  Charles  heard  from — from  her — after — after  her 
mother's  death.  Do  you " 

He  saw  that  her  head  was  slowly  nodding.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  just  audibly. 

"Truly  ?    How  do  you  know  ?" 

Bessie  looked  up  at  him,  her  face  quite  pale.  She  did 
not  answer  immediately.  There  had  been  a  Gordon  setter 
in  Slade's  boyhood,  a  favourite  dog  of  his  father's,  dead 
some  ten  years  ago.  It  used  to  sit  and  look  up  at  you,  fol 
lowing  the  movements  of  your  head  and  hand  with  its  own 
head,  eyes  never  leaving  your  face.  A  beautiful,  noble, 
faithful  creature.  The  gaze  came  back  to  Slade  poignantly, 
as  he  looked  at  Bessie.  He  felt  his  own  eyes  burn  sud 
denly,  for  some  inexplicable  reason.  What  on  earth  was 
the  matter  with  him  ?  A  warmth  grew  about  his  heart. 

"You'd  think  me  horrible,"  said  his  cousin,  dropping  her 
eyes  abruptly.  "You'd  think  me  perfectly  horrid." 

His  mouth  and  eyes  went  open.  "Wha-at?  Why,  I 
couldn't  possibly,  Bess.  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I've  read  her  letter,"  she  said,  her  face  still  turned  from 
him.  Her  voice  did  not  quiver.  It  was  a  little  louder  than 
breathing. 

He  found  nothing  to  say  for  the  few  seconds  that  elapsed 


ON  A  QUIET  EVENING  201 

before  her  words  rushed  on  in  a  voice  low  but  perfectly 
distinct. 

"I  found  it.  Two  years  ago.  I  came  in  for  something 
and  found  it  on  his  desk.  He  had  gone  out  and  forgotten 
to  lock  it  up.  I  didn't  know  what  it  was.  Then  I  guessed. 
It  was  open.  Out  of  the  envelope.  I  knew  it  was  Gertrude, 
of  course.  It  opened,  'Dearest  Father'.  It  was  dated  the 
month  after  her  mother's  death — from  England.  I  couldn't 
go  out  of  the  room  without  knowing,  then.  I  couldn't.  I 
couldnt.  I  read  it  all  through." 

"Well,  why  shouldn't  you?"  asked  Slade  defensively.  "I 
don't  see  any  harm  in  that.  It  hasn't  hurt  anybody,  has  it  ?" 

Again  her  face  turned  to  him.    Her  hand  was  on  his  arm. 

"You  don't  think  so,  do  you?"  she  said  quickly,  "and, 
Slade,— you'll  never  tell?" 

"I  should  say  not,"  he  returned  stoutly.  "Nonsense.  Of 
course  it's  all  right.  Tell  me,  though, — tell  me — about " 

"Oh,  she  said  she  was  so  sorry.  That  she  was  very  un 
happy.  That  she  had  been  unhappy  for  a  long  time.  That 
it  had  been  her  pride.  There  must  have  been  a  big  scene 
of  some  kind,  you  know,  shortly  before  she  ran  away — with 
her  mother.  She  sort  of  hinted  too  at  something  else.  It 
sounded  as  though  she  had  been  married,  and  been  unhappy, 
and  they  had  separated.  She  told  father  how  much  she  loved 
him.  She  had  never  meant  to  hurt  him.  All  about  her 
pride  too,  and  that  she  had  made  up  her  mind  she  wasn't 
going  to  come  back  beaten,  if  things  went  wrong  with  her, 
or  worry  him  with  her  troubles.  Then  she  ended  by  saying 
that  he  musn't  worry  about  her  now.  She  was  all  right,  had 
a  good  position,  was  doing  some  writing.  She  sent  him  all 
the  love  she  had  for  anyone,  she  said.  She  had  just  heard 
of  her  mother's  death.  She  knew  about  me.  She  explained 
a  lot  about  how  it  had  been  between  her  mother  and  her. 
But  there  must  have  been  a — a  love-affair  too.  I  don't  un 
derstand,  though, — certainly  I've  never  heard  from  anybody 
around  here  that  there  was  anything  like  that.  I  think  I 
know  all  father  knows,  and  he  thinks  nothing  of  the  kind. 


202          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

But  I  could  read  it  in  the  letter,  even  if  it  wasn't  written 
out." 

"What — where  did  the  letter  come  from,  you  say?" 

"From  England — London — she  was  evidently  over  there 
as  a  sort  of  secretary-companion  to  a  rich  woman." 

"And  he  never  told  you?" 

"No.  Never.  He  must  have  worked  it  all  out  by  him 
self  and  decided  it  was  better  not  to.  She  told  him  where 
to  send  an  answer,  if  he  wanted  to.  It  wasn't  her  real  ad 
dress.  I  don't  know  whether  he  ever  did  or  not." 

"Strange.    It's  all  very  strange,"  said  Slade. 

They  had  come  opposite  the  Pollock  house  and  Bessie's 
last  words  had  been  in  a  very  low  voice.  Slade  nodded 
only.  But  he  slipped  his  arm  through  his  cousin's  and  sud 
denly  gripped  her  hand,  withdrawing  his  own  immediately. 
Then  they  went  up  the  steps  together  to  the  dim  forms  of 
their  two  relatives  on  the  porch  above. 


CHAPTER  XXII:    WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE 

SLADE  took  a  morning  train  back  on  Monday  as  he  had 
to  be  in  the  city  by  evening.  He  and  Bessie  together 
ran  over  a  moment  to  allow  him  a  formal  good-bye  to  Adela. 
They  found  her  in  her  garden  as  usual.  She  did  not  refer 
to  her  Sunday  caller  of  the  afternoon  before.  Nor  did 
Slade.  She  put  in  Bessie's  hand  a  flower  for  Slade's  button 
hole.  Bessie  walked  back  with  him  to  the  house  and  down 
with  him  to  the  station. 

As  the  train  pulled  out  he  waved  to  her  and  she  waved 
back  at  him  with  bright  eyes.  There  was  no  badinage.  He 
sat  looking  straight  ahead  of  him  for  several  minutes  as 
the  train  clanged  through  the  town.  His  interest  in  the  dusty 
plush  back  of  the  seat  in  front  of  him  seemed  enormous. 

Between  Tupton  and  the  Pennsylvania  Station  in  New 
York,  with  time  out  for  a  change  at  the  Junction,  there  was 
plenty  of  opportunity  for  reflection.  Slade  extracted  a 
novel  from  his  bag  but  let  it  lie  unopened  upon  the  maroon 
seat.  He  rested  his  chin  upon  his  hand  and  gazed  out  upon 
the  dipping  and  soaring  telegraph  wires  combed  through 
their  green  glass  insulators  on  the  tall  double-armed  poles 
that  rose  at  him  and  flashed  past  by  the  wayside.  Behind 
them  the  country  was  sunny  and  green.  But  the  heat  of 
the  day  was  oppressive.  He  removed  his  coat  and  suffered 
from  sifting  cinders  that  ticked  against  the  wire  netted  open 
space  at  the  bottom  of  the  window.  He  felt  both  grimy  and 
deliquescent. 

Really,  it  was  all  darned  interesting.  The  manuscript, 
Ten-ill's  mysterious  book,  Mrs.  Ventress,  Gertrude,  Mrs. 
Ventress's  visitor,  Coryat,  Bessie  .  .  .  They  mixed  in  his 
mind  to  the  rhythm  of  the  train,  the  surging  sound  of  it 

203 


204          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

mingled  with  the  clicking  of  rail- joints  and  the  creak  and 
clank  of  couplings.  His  head  wagged  against  the  maroon 
back  of  the  seat  as  he  closed  his  eyes.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Ventress's  face,  in  surprise,  in  alarm.  No,  not  at 
that  loud-suited  individual's  greeting  so  much, — at  his  own 
mention  of  Richard  Coryat.  No,  she  had  supplied  the 
"Richard".  That's  so.  She  knew  him  through  acquaint 
ances.  But  still,  but  still.  .  .  . 

And — wasn't  there  some  confusion  about  the  book? 
Something  queer  about  the  whole  thing.  He  didn't  know 
just  what.  Of  course  that  man  wasn't  her  husband !  Cor 
yat?  But  how  on  earth  could  that  be.  Impossible. 
Names.  .  .  . 

He  was  conscious  of  a  voice  that  penetrated  to  him  over 
the  back  of  the  seat  ahead,  of  two  nodding  bonnets  that  had 
not  been  there  before.  He  did  not  recognise  the  two  Miss 
Babbitts,  going  to  Philadelphia.  They  had  fussily  changed 
their  seats.  But  he  was  conscious  of  the  voice  because  it 
had  just  said  "Mrs.  Ventress"  in  a  derogatory  tone.  "Aha, 
aha,  aha,"  came  the  queerly  mechanical  laugh  of  the  other 
Miss  Babbitt. 

".  .  .  .  if  you  think  it's  just  silly  .  .  .  for  Sophia  saw  him 
herself " 

"No,  it's  probably  true,"  the  sister  answered.  "She's  a 
most  peculiar  woman  and  it's  probably  quite  true.  But  who 
could  he  have  been?" 

"No  one  knows.  Except  that  he  was  rather  loudly  dressed 
and  was  there  practically  all  the  afternoon,  and  stayed  to 
supper  certainly.  He  left  on  the  eight-ten." 

"He  said  it  wasn't  her  real  name?" 

"So  Jason  Duffitt  swore  to  Sophia.  She's  a  thorough 
minx  in  my  opinion.  And  who  knows  anything  about  her. 
Don't  you  think  it  was  extremely  rude  of  her  the  way  she 
called  so  casually  on  Mrs.  Mixter,  after  she'd  been  to  dinner 
there?  And  then  she  goes  mysteriously  out  of  town  for 
several  days — and  then  this  strange  man  turns  up.  But 


WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE  205 

you  see  it's  all  of  a  piece.  And  little  Mrs.  Persons  says 
she  has  a  really  horridly  insinuating  way  with  men." 

"What  did  you  say  he  looked  like?" 

"Who?  Oh,  he!  Like  a  drummer,  like  a  flashy  type  of 
travelling  salesman.  Caroline  Utterson  saw  him  too.  He 
passed  her  house  coming  back.  I  believe  he's  her  husband." 
She  meant  Adela's. 

"Oh,  no,  Phoebe,"  said  the  younger  Miss  Babbitt,  incredu 
lous.  "I  don't  really  believe  he  could  be." 

"Well,  what  then.    Do  you  think  he  could  be  a  relative?" 

"He  must  have  been.  So  she  isn't  what  she  represents 
herself  to  be?" 

"Well,  I  trust  Sophia.    That's  all  I  know." 

"But  then,  who  is  she?" 

"Who  knows  ?  I  think  she's  a  wealthy  divorcee  from  New 
York  myself.  This  man  might  have  been — who  might  he 
not  have  been.  Why  did  he  stay  the  entire  afternoon?" 

"Well,  really  now,  Phoebe,  I  think  Sophia  has  rather  in 
fected  your  mind.  He  was  probably  merely  a  relative.  .  .  ." 

"But  such  a  relative! 

"Yes.  Well,  after  all,  Phoebe,  she  may  not  be  to  the 
manner  born,  for  all  her  airs.  She  didn't  seem  so,  in  fact, 
to  me,  when  I  first  met  her.  Her  manner  is  so  flippant  and 
casual.  Oh,  no,  these  people  creep  in  everywhere  nowadays. 
But  (with  high  rectitude)  I  refuse  to  believe  ill  of  anyone, 
until  it  is  proved.  Did  you  say  Aunt  Sara  would  meet  us 
at  the  Broad  Street  Station?" 

Slade  thought  that  the  person  they  were  discussing  bore 
no  more  actual  resemblance  to  the  charming  individual  he 
had  had  tea  with  on  Sunday  than  did  Bloody  Mary  to 
Atalanta.  He  was  extremely  annoyed.  So  this  was  the 
kind  of  thing!  As  for  that  man,  he  might  have  been — 
oh,  well,  never  mind ;  good  Lord,  who  cared !  Anyone  with 
an  eye  could  see  what  she  really  was.  As  for  this  business 
of  her  name  not  being  her  own — hm.  Well,  suppose  it 

wasn't?  Nobody  like  that .  Oh,  the  old  cackling  hens, 

what  preposterous  spinsterish  nonsense!  At  this  point  in 


206          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

his  exasperated  thought  he  recalled  Dr.  Gedney's  answer  on 
the  way  home  from  that  Fourth  of  July  affair, — an  answer 
to  some  spontaneously  enthusiastic  remark  of  Slade's. 

"Arthur  is  so  absurd  about  her!" 

"But  what  does  he  say,  Uncle  Charles?" 

"Oh,  that  he  distrusts  her.  Maybe  he  changed  his  opinion 
to-night.  But  you  know,  probably,  how  Arthur  has  been 
about  women,  ever  since  Miriam's  death.  I  was  certainly 
very  pleasantly  impressed  by  her  this  evening." 

"Does  he  mind  Bessie  and  her  being  together  so  much?" 

"Oh,  yes.  You  know  Bessie  is  Arthur's  ewe-lamb.  And 
I  believe  there  is  some  sort  of  talk  in  the  town.  But  isn't 
there  always.  (Dr.  Gedney's  lip  had  curled.)  Look  at  the 
ridiculous,  criminally  ridiculous  things  that  were  said  after 
Gertrude — after  Gertrude  ran  away.  I  simply  paid  no  at 
tention.  There's  no  nonsense  about  Bessie.  She  knows  the 
substance  from  the  shadow.  Mrs.  Ventress  came  here  with 
excellent  recommendations — or  however  you  put  it — from 
New  York.  She  has  lived  in  a  very  quiet  and  dignified  way. 
Of  course,  there  are  some  outrageous  gossips  in  this  town; 
that  Miss  Crome,  for  instance " 

Slade  wondered,  remembering,  whether  either  of  the  stiff 
angular  women  on  the  seat  ahead  could  be  Sophia  Crome. 

Well,  it  was  interesting  at  any  rate.     What  a  wonderful 

companion bosh!     Of  what  was  he  thinking.     He  knew 

now.  It  had  been  completely  evident  to  him  in  her  dismis 
sal  of  him  at  the  approach  of  that  stout  person — she  didn't 
really  care,  couldn't  possibly — how  could  she?  Why,  but 
she  was  married,  wasn't  she?  He  suddenly  smiled  very 
wrily  at  his  own  goings-on.  If  he  wasn't  a  blasted  idiot! 
She  had  been  extremely  nice  to  him  and  he  had  let  himself 
go,  in  a  day-dream  .  .  .  When  the  stout  person  approached 
she  had  hustled  him  off  absent-mindedly  .  .  .  That  was  all 
right,  of  course.  But,  equally  of  course, — oh,  what  an  ass 
he  had  been!  But  she  was  wonderful.  He  would  always 
admire  her  anyway.  .  .  . 

Bessie  had  never  seen  Gertrude.     What  a  peculiar  girl 


WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE  207 

Gertrude  must  have  been, — what  an  extremely  peculiar 
woman  his  Aunt  Martha !  What  a  tragedy  when  it  all  hap 
pened!  He  wondered  if  there  had  been  a  love-affair  for 
Gertrude.  He  wondered.  Was  she  still  in  London?  Sup 
pose  she  were,  by  any  chance,  in  New  York.  Suppose 
under  a  changed  name,  if  she  had  married,  she  were  now 
wealthy  and  famous.  Suppose  ...  by  George! 

Slade's  eyes  opened.  His  brow  wrinkled.  What  did  Mrs. 
Ventress  write?  Suppose  .  .  .  Oh,  what  nonsense!  What 
a  nut  he  was !  What  an  utter  nut !  His  imagination  again. 
He  was  always  spinning  impossible  stories  about  people. 
Gertrude.  Mrs.  Ventress.  What  nonsense! 

Nevertheless  he  wondered.  .  .  . 

*  *  * 

Upon  his  return  to  the  office  on  Tuesday,  Slade  learned 
all  about  the  feminine  claimant  to  authorship  of  the  mys 
terious  "Crystal  Castle".  He  also  learned  that  she  had  not 
put  in  an  appearance  on  Monday.  Not  at  all.  Coryat  had 
come  in  and  enquired  for  him,  leaving  his  first  article. 
Toward  the  end  of  a  crowded  afternoon,  Coryat's  voice 
floated  into  his  ear  blurred  by  the  telephone-receiver. 

"Hello !  Have  a  good  time  ?  I  left  my  first  article  with 
your  chief  yesterday.  Oh,  he  told  you  ?  Did  that  phantasmal 
young  woman  turn  up  to-day?  No?  Isn't  it  damned 
curious  ?" 

"You  know  I  believe  you're  all  kidding  me,"  said  Slade, 
holding  the  'phone  in  his  lap  and  turning  an  eye  on  Miss 
Peabody  opposite.  "There  wasn't  really  any  bright  young 
female,  was  there?" 

"All  I  know  is  your  Chief  swore  to  me  that  there  was, 
and  told  me  all  she  had  said." 

"Ha !"  said  Miss  Peabody  with  mock-acidity  as  she  caught 
Slade's  "Really?"  "Ha!  Corroboration,  I  see,  corrobora- 
tion!" 

"Well,"  laughed  Slade  into  the  mouthpiece,  "I  refuse  to 
believe  it  until  I  see  her,  that's  all.  It  strikes  me  as  entirely 


208          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

too  melodramatic.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  have  a  startling  bit 
of  news  for  you.  .  .  . 

"Yeah.  Remember  that  friend  of  my  cousin's  I  spoke 
to  you  about?  Yeah.  Well,  it  seems  she  owns  Terrill's 
book  and  has  read  it.  Honestly  .  .  .  No,  I  didn't;  because 
she  said  she  had  left  her  copy  in  town.  She  comes  from  here, 
you  know  .  .  .  What?  No,  neither  did  I,  from  what  you 
told  me — but  it  seems  there  are  three  anyway,  you,  your 
friend  and  my  friend  .  .  .  Yes,  you  ought  to.  She's  a  most 
charming  person  .  .  .  Oh,  she  writes.  I  don't  know.  She 
never  will  tell  us  just  what  she  writes.  She's  rather  mys 
terious  about  it  ...  Dinner?  Why — let's  see — why,  yes, 
I  guess  I  can  make  it.  What  time?" 

So  it  happened  that  that  evening  Slade  and  Richard  Coryat 
again  sat  facing  each  other  across  a  small  table,  this  time 
in  the  rear  open  dining-room  of  the  Golden  Eagle  on  Mac- 
Dougall  Street. 

"Look  here,  who  is  this  friend  of  your  cousin's,  this 
Mrs.  Ventress?"  inquired  Coryat  directly.  "You  certainly 
interested  me  a  lot  by  what  you  said  over  the  'phone." 

"Mrs.  Ventress?  Why,  I've  told  you  all  I  know  about 
her,  and  that  I  think  she's  an  exceptionally  charming  per 
son,"  returned  Slade,  his  eyes  betraying  fear  of  teasing. 
"She's  been  awfully  nice  to  my  cousin.  She  evidently  lives 
here  in  the  city  mostly  and  writes.  As  I  said  over  the  'phone, 
we've  never  been  able  to  find  out  just  what  she  writes ;  and 
she  implies  that  she's  given  it  up.  She's  taken  to  drawing 
again — she  really  draws  awfully  well.  She  studied  it  some 
years  ago.  Your  guess  is  as  good  as  mine.  Only  she's 
evidently  well-off  and  quite  independent,  possibly  with  a 
husband  somewhere,  but  I've  never  heard  her  speak  of  him, 
or  of  her  family.  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  whether  her  hus 
band  is  dead  or — well,  of  course,  she  may  be  divorced.  I 
believe  it's  rather  set  opinion  in  the  town  against  her  that 
she's  never  produced  her  husband.  There's  some  mystery 
there.  She's  a  woman,  I  should  say,  of  about  thirty,  maybe 
older.  She  looks  very  young  sometimes,  though.  (Coryat 


WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE  209 

repressed  a  smile.)  She  has  a  fine  mind,  knows  good  poetry, 
told  me  all  sorts  of  interesting  things.  I  should  think  she 
had  travelled.  Sounds  like  it.  She's  the  kind  of  person 
who  would  have  been  likely  to  pick  up  Ten-ill's  book  in  Lon 
don  and  treasure  it — distinctly  the  kind.  She  was  certainly 
enthusiastic  about  it.  She  knew  your  name,  by  the  way." 

"Knew  my  name — how?" 

"Through  mutual  acquaintances,  she  said.  Knew  of  your 
knowing  about  the  book." 

"That's  funny.  I  know  so  few  people  in  New  York.  You 
see  I  have  been  abroad  such  a  long  time.  It  might  have 
been  someone  in  England — if  she's  been  over  there.  But " 

"She  didn't  specify.     It  might." 

"That  seems  funny  to  me  though — funny  that  I  shouldn't 
have  heard  the  name.  The  name  I  was  thinking  of  the  other 
night " 

He  paused. 

"I'm  puzzled,  and  I'm  interested  in  this,"  he  said  again, 
after  a  moment.  "What  does  she  look  like?  Tell  me  more 
about  her." 

"You  do  seem  to  think  you  know  her,"  laughed  Slade. 
"Well,  she's  about  the  average  height.  Looks  tall  some 
times.  Brown  hair,  brown  eyes,  dresses  charmingly.  Oval 
face — I  don't  know,  did  you  ever  try  describing  a  woman? 
Has  nice  eyes,  is  witty  and  quick.  Gosh,  it  sounds  like  a 
'Situation  Wanted'  in  the  Times!" 

Coryat  smiled. 

"That  certainly  might  describe  a  number  of  quite  different 
people  at  that.  She  looks  successful,  does  she?" 

"Well,  she  evidently  has  enough  money  and  has  not  led 
a  particularly  hard  life,  lately  anyhow.  Her  writing  doesn't 
seem  to  have  pleased  her " 

"Oh,  it  doesn't,"  said  Coryat.  "Then  that  wouldn't  be- 
but,  by  George,  I  wonder " 

"What  do  you  wonder?" 

"Sorry,  Breckinridge.  I  always  seem  to  be  doing  this. 
But  the  fact  is  I  speculate  sometimes — oh,  well !  .  .  .  Well, 


210          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

you  come  in  with  a  mysterious  feminine  person,  and  my 
mind  leaps  to  probably  inane  conclusions,  that's  all.  And 
then  this  matter  of  her  having  read  'Golden  Windfall'.  That's 
peculiar  too.  And  then  this  mysterious  claimant  of  author 
ship  of  Terrill's  story — for  that's  what  I  think  it  is  ... 
I'd  certainly  like  to  take  a  look  at  that  lady  of  yours !" 

"Well  certainly  nothing's  to  prevent  your  coming  down 
to  Tupton  with  me  next  time  I  go,"  offered  Slade.  "Uncle 
Charles  or  Uncle  Arthur  could  put  you  up.  I'd  like  nothing 
better  than  to  have  you.  Come  along!" 

"Well,  that's  mighty  kind  of  you.  When  are  you  going 
again  ?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  don't  believe  I  can  get  off  again 
for  two  weeks  anyway,  and  then  I'd  have  to  leave  there  on 
Sunday.  Still — though  I'd  intended  taking  my  two  weeks' 
vacation  at  the  end  of  August,  I  might  manage  to  ad 
vance  it." 

"Well  I  really  am  strongly  tempted  to  take  you  up.  Mean 
while,  it  seems  that  this  claimant  has  vanished  from  the  face 
of  the  earth." 

"Yes,  doesn't  it.  Maybe  she'll  come  in  to-morrow.  Won 
der  what  on  earth  happened  to  her?" 

"I  wonder.  I  wish  to  blazes  the  friend  of  mine  who  bor 
rowed  'Golden  Windfall'  would  make  some  sign.  I  have  no 
idea  where  she  is,  and " 

"Oh,  she's  a  woman!" 

"Yes, — she's  a  woman, — a  darn  fine  one  too." 

Again  Coryat  was  tempted  to  tell  Slade  all  about  Flora. 
Yet,  just  because  he  actually  found  himself  missing  her,  for 
all  their  brief  and  curtailed  acquaintance,  he  refrained.  He 
wished  to  keep  Flora  out  of  this.  He  had  had  certain  absurd 
suspicions  of  course.  And  then  too — he  had  recently  had 
a  peculiar  dream. 

He  had  stood  in  front  of  a  misty  blank  window  and  seen 
two  figures  moving  dimly  about  behind  it.  One  suddenly 
blurred  nearer  and  larger,  and  a  white  face  pressed  against 
the  pane.  It  was  Flora's  face,  distinctly  recognisable.  But 


WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE 

she  stared  straight  into  his  eyes  without  the  slightest  rec 
ognition.  And  as  he  looked,  her  face  faded,  and  he 
was  looking  into  the  eyes  of — Jane.  Then  her  face  faded 
also.  But  before  it  faded  she  had  smiled  at  him.  There 
were  tears  in  her  eyes  no  longer.  And  as  he  stared  he  was 
reading  some  words  in  gigantic  type  upon  what  seemed  to 
be  the  huge  opened  page  of  a  book.  They  were  the  opening 
words  of  Richard  Terrill's  first  chapter  in  "Golden  Wind 
fall",  in  which  he  analyses  the  strange  purblindness  of  the 
seeking  soul.  Then  that  great  page  of  terrifying  black  type 
faded  too  .  .  .  He  could  make  nothing  of  the  dream. 

But  he  was  thinking  of  it  as  he  lit  his  cigarette  from  the 
match  Slade  held.  He  would  say  nothing.  He  would  find 
out  for  himself. 

"It's  an  easy  trip,"  Slade  was  saying.  "It's  not  so  very 
far  from  Philadelphia.  Mrs.  Ventress  had  been  visiting 
there  for  a  day  or  so,  when  I  came  down.  I  didn't  see  her 
Saturday  as  I  expected.  She  got  back  some  time  late  Satur 
day  night.  She  must  have  friends  in  Philadelphia ." 

"Indeed,"  returned  Coryat  slowly.     He  was  thinking. 

"This  woman  who  turned  up  at  the  office,"  he  said  after 
a  moment.  "She,  for  instance,  as  well  as  the  friend  I  men 
tioned,  would  answer  to  the  description  you  gave  of  Mrs. 
Ventress." 

"Would  she?"  asked  Slade.    "But  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  old  T.  B.f  as  you  call  him,  said  she  was  about 
average  height  but  looked  taller  when  she  stood  up  about 
to  go.  She  seems  to  have  had  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes, 
according  to  your  general  description,  though  of  course 
people's  memories  differ  as  to  the  shade  of  colour  in  eyes. 
Miss  Peabody  spoke  of  her  as  having  "considerable  dis 
tinction'  and  believes  she  did  write  the  story.  She  seems 
to  have  been  something  of  a  personality " 

"But  what  are  you  getting  at,"  laughed  Slade.  "You  mean 
to  imply  that  Mrs.  Ventress  could  have  come  all  the  way  to 

New  York  and .  Besides,  that's  implying  she  knowingly 

imitated  Terrill's  style,  which  would  be  a  literary  crime. 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Besides,  again,  this  woman  said  she  had  written  'Golden 
Windfall' !" 

"Well,  my  dear  Breckinridge,  we  don't  really  know  who 
wrote  'Golden  Windfall'.  Do  we?" 

"But, — why,  good  heavens!    You  mean  to  say ?" 

"I  don't  mean  to  say  anything.  I'm  just  thinking.  Prob 
ably  I'm  way  off.  But  your  friend  is  agitated  when  you 
mention  Terrill's  book.  You  said  she  was.  You  know  she 
writes,  but  she's  mysterious  about  it.  She's  away  from  Tup- 
ton  for  several  days,  not  back  till  very  late  Saturday  night. 
Well,  if  she  left  here  on  the  eleven  o'clock  train  she'd  have 
been  in  Tupton  by  eleven  that  night — that  was  the  train  you 
took,  wasn't  it  ?  And  she  could  conceivably  have  come  on  to 
New  York,  instead  of  stopping  at  Philadelphia.  She  has 
plenty  of  money  to  indulge  herself  in  such  a  trip,  plenty  of 
time  on  her  hands.  This  claimant  was  in  The  Colosseum 
office  only  till  about  10:15,  according  to  what  your  Chief 
told  me.  That  gives  her  time  to  catch  her  train  and =" 

Slade  was  somewhat  staggered. 

"But  she  said  she  knew  you?" 

"Only  through  mutual  acquaintances.  Anyone  may  meet 
an  anonymous  author  sometime  without  knowing  it.  'Rich 
ard  Terrill'  may  be  an  assumed  name.  I've  never  thought  of 
it  before — I  had  a  picture  of  the  man  so  clearly  in  my  mind — 
but  it  may  be.  And  all  that  I'm  saying  may  be  proved  the 
most  utter  nonsense,  but " 

"But  why  didn't  she  turn  up  with  her  proofs?  Why  all 
this  concealment?  I  don't  understand." 

"Neither  do  I.     I'm  just  guessing — maybe  wildly " 

"You  gentlemen  feel  in  any  need  of  inspiration  this  eve 
ning?  Are  you  familiar  with  the  psychological  properties 
of  my  soul  candy?  Ah,  pardon  me,  I  see  you  are  en 
gaged "  It  was  Tiny  Tim,  bare-headed,  with  white 

shirt  and  flowing  black  hair  and  tie.  He  passed  with  friend 
ship's  offering  in  neat  packages  upon  his  tray.  He  stopped 
at  the  next  table  and  engaged  in  a  philosophical  dissertation 


WHO  SHE  MIGHT  BE  213 

with  a  gentleman  in  cloaks  and  suits.  The  lady  with  the 
gentleman  kept  up  an  uninterrupted  giggle. 

"Well,"  said  Slade,  "you've  certainly  given  me  something 
to  think  about.  What  do  you  say  ?  Shall  we  go  ?" 

As  they  paused  before  the  counter-gate  in  the  outer  hall, 
where  the  Frenchwoman  in  attendance  procured  their  hats, 
Coryat  said, 

"I  will  take  advantage  of  your  invitation  if  it  still  holds, 
and  go  down  with  you  when  you  go  next.  Meanwhile,  well, 
let  us  wait  and  find  out." 

"All  right,"  said  Slade.  "You  mean  'don't  say  anything 
about  it'.  I  won't.  Of  course,  as  you  say,  it  may  all  be  a 
pipe-dream.  It  certainly  has  that  appearance  to  me — and 

yet Well,  all  I  know  is  that  Mrs.  Ventress  is  as  straight 

as  a  string  as  well  as  being  a  remarkably  interesting  woman. 
If  by  any  wild  possibility  she  were  Richard  Terrill,  she's 
given  up  attempting  to  convince  old  T.  B.  for  some  very 
good  reason." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  of  that,"  said  Coryat  hastily.  "There's  no 
question  of  that.  But  then " 

As  he  walked  home  up  Fourth  Avenue  later  in  the  eve 
ning  he  wondered — he  certainly  wondered 


CHAPTER  XXHI:    IT  COMES  TO  MISS  CROME 

TWO  weeks  passed,  Miss  Ann  Cole  had  not  reappeared 
at  The  Colosseum  office.  "The  Crystal  Castle"  still 
reposed  in  the  safe.  Slade,  busied  with  many  manuscripts, 
with  foundry  proofs  and  "signatures",  with  constant  callers, 
luncheon  engagements  and  dinner  engagements,  with  Rafe's 
affairs  and  the  affairs  of  other  friends,  almost  forgot  Tup- 
ton  in  the  interim.  Mrs.  Ventress  recurred  occasionally. 
Bessie  entered  his  thoughts  as  often.  He  speculated  a  good 
deal  about  the  author  of  "The  Crystal  Castle".  He  had  come 
greatly  to  discount  Coryat's  wild  conjecture.  But  in  his 
peregrinations  about  the  Village  he  often  stopped  and  looked 
after  ladies  with  brown  eyes  and  brown  hair,  even  if  the 
latter  were  bobbed.  Rafe  began  to  rag  him  about  it. 

Bessie  wrote  him,  a  pleasant,  friendly  letter,  informing 
him  that  everything  was  much  as  he  had  left  it  in  the  small 
town.  She  inveighed  again  in  no  uncertain  terms  against 
Miss  Crome  and  village  gossip  in  general.  She  also  sus 
pected  Jason  Duffitt  of  secretly  running  down  Adela's  repu 
tation.  She  was  not  so  far  mistaken. 

They  were  much  together  these  days,  Jason  and  Miss 
Crome.  Jason  would  come  over  and  sit  on  Miss  Crome's 
cushioned  stone  stoop  of  an  evening,  if  he  were  passing  by, — 
and  he  usually  was,  somehow.  On  one  of  these  evenings 
Miss  Crome  hit  upon  a  most  remarkable  elucidation  of  the 
principal  matter  that  had  been  perplexing  them — an  elucida 
tion  Bessie  had  no  cognizance  of. 

They  were  speaking  of  the  name  that  was  not  Mrs.  Vent- 
ress's.  Miss  Crome  had  already  spread  broadcast  insinua 
tion  concerning  cigarettes  on  Sunday,  "that  young  Mr. 

214 


IT  COMES  TO  MISS  CROME 

Breckinridge",  and,  as  we  have  heard,  the  mysterious  indi 
vidual  in  the  loud  suit.  The  Miss  Babbitts  had  got  hold, 
of  course,  of  the  rumour  about  the  name,  but  they  were 
still  in  Philadelphia,  and  that  had  gone  no  farther  in  the 
town  as  yet.  Miss  Crome,  seeing  this,  hoarded  it;  she  en 
joined  Mr.  Duffitt  to  hoard  it.  She  said  she  must  "turn  it 
over  in  her  mind".  Several  days  of  turning  it  over  pro 
duced — A  Theory. 

"It's  come  back  to  me,"  announced  Miss  Crome  conspira- 
torially  one  evening,  in  an  awed  voice.  "It  was  before  your 
time  here,  Mr.  Duffitt.  But  it's  come  back  to  me !" 

"What  has?" 

"Well,  it's  this  way.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  Gertrude 
Gedney?" 

"Yes,  o'course.  I  know  the  story.  She  run  away  from 
home  about  twenty  years  ago,  didn't  she  ?  She  never  turned 
up.  Guess  everyone's  lived  here  at  all  knows  about  that." 

"Yes — and "  Miss  Crome  rocked  back  and  forth,  her 

arms  clasping  each  other  in  her  lap.  (She  was  a  ferment 
of  excitement  within)  "I've  got  a  theory!" 

"What?" 

"The  name  comes  back  to  me  now.  He  was  a  nephew  of 
Judge  Lindon,  up  on  the  Hill " 

"Who  was?" 

"Roger  Ventress.  That  was  his  name.  I'd  take  my  oath 
it  was  the  same  name.  I'd  swear  to  it.  Besides,  I've  been 
enquiring  round.  There're  a  few  still  remember.  Mrs. 
Hoyle  thinks  so.  But  Sally  Barber's  got  the  best  memory 
in  this  town  and  has  lived  here  the  longest;  only  she's  old 
and  hasn't  got  out  and  around  much.  She  says  it  was  Vent 
ress.  She  says  she  thought  it  was  funny  when  this  woman 
first  came  to  live  here.  Only  she  doesn't  talk  much,  does 
Sally.  You  have  to  get  it  out  of  her.  Judge  Lindon,  you 
know,  lived  rather  removed,  up  there  on  the  Hill.  Not  many 
even  of  the  old  residents  knew  him,  and  those  not  well.  But 
he  had  this  nephew.  People  have  forgotten.  Roger  Vent 
ress  came  to  visit  his  uncle — we've  pieced  it  out,  Sally  and 


216         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

I — and  was  at  the  Institute  dance  at  Gertrude  Gedney's 
Commencement.  He  stayed  a  week  or  so.  Even  Sally 
Barber  don't  remember  whether  they  saw  much  of  each 
other.  But  /  remember  now  one  evening  he  took  her  home 
from  a  young  people's  party.  Then  he  went  away.  That 
would  have  been  the  end  of  June.  About  a  week  later 
Gertrude  disappeared.  Some  connected  it  up  then,  but  the 
idea  died  out.  There  was  some  talk  about  it — it  all  comes 
back  to  me — but — well,  you  see,  this  happened " 

She  lifted  a  skinny  forefinger  and  became  impressive. 

"It  was  what  made  Judge  Lindon  move  away,  and  it  was 
common  talk  at  the  time,  but  everybody's  forgotten  the  name 
now.  Roger  Ventress  got  a  heat-stroke  in  that  hot  spell  in 
New  York.  The  Judge  left  here  to  go  to  him,  found  him 
in  a  New  York  hospital  where  he'd  been  taken  after  he  fell 
in  the  street.  He  lived  only  twenty-four  hours.  That  much 
was  in  our  local  paper  and  you  can  find  it  there.  Ventress's 
parents  lived  in  New  York.  Judge  Lindon,  though,  was  very 
fond  of  the  young  man,  and  the  end  of  that  summer  the 
Lindons  moved  away  from  Tupton,  I'd  forgotten  about 
them  for  a  long  time.  Now  I  remember.  And  Sally  Barber 
filled  out  what  I  didn't  remember " 

"But  lookee  here !"  exclaimed  the  bewildered  Mr. 

Duffitt.  "Yer  past  me,  Miss  Crome." 

"This  Mrs.  Ventress — why  don't  you  see.  She's  Gertrude 
Gedney  come  back.  It  seems  to  me  plain  as  the  nose  on  your 
face.  She  thought,  after  all  these  years,  that  no  one  would 
remember.  She  knew  the  Judge's  family  weren't  here  any 
more.  It's  my  belief  she  and  that  boy,  Roger  Ventress,  got 
married  secretly  as  soon  as  she  got  to  the  city.  It's  my 
belief  she  went  right  to  New  York  and  married  him.  Then 
he  died  suddenly  in  the  street  that  way  and  she  got  fright 
ened.  Hid  away  somewhere.  Afraid  to  go  back,  afraid  to 
let  on  where  she  was.  After  that,  I  don't  know." 

"But  wouldn't  such  a  marriage  have  come  out.  Don't 
seem  reasonable,  Miss  Crome." 

"Why  would  it?    If  his  parents  had  known  they'd  surely 


IT  COMES  TO  MISS  CROME  217 

have  written  Dr.  Gedney.  But  I  know — O  I  could  tell ! — he 
didn't  ever  hear  from  them  or  through  Judge  Lindon.  The 
marriage  was  being  kept  quiet  Maybe,"  ventured  Miss 
Crome  recalling  the  movies,  "maybe  it  was  a  mock-mar 
riage." 

"But  why  in  time  would  she  come  back  here  with  that 
name — specially  if  it  weren't  her  own?" 

"Why,"  asked  Miss  Crome  dramatically,  "is  there  sin 
and  shame  in  this  world?" 

Mr.  Duffitt  didn't  know  the  answer  to  that. 

"It  was  a  secret  marriage,"  elaborated  Miss  Crome. 
"After  his  death  she  may  have  fallen  into  sin  and  shame. 
But  she's  come  into  a  portion  of  this  world's  goods  through 
it.  And  she's  come  back  here  to  flaunt  it  in  our  faces.  I 
don't  believe  there's  one  mite  smitch  of  repentance  in  her 
heart.  But  of  course  she's  afraid  to  tell  who  she  is  to  her 
own  people.  She's  still  afraid.  But — why,  look  at  the  way 
she's  taken  up  with  Bessie  Gedney,  her  own  sister-by-adop 
tion.  Isn't  it  reasonable?" 

She  paused  dramatically. 

Mr.  Duffitt  scratched  his  head.  He  didn't  think  it  was. 
Still,  the  sin  and  shame  element  appealed  to  his  highly- 
coloured  imagination.  He  smoked  and  stared  for  several 
minutes. 

"It  ain't  reasonable  she'd  a  come  back  with  that  name. 
Besides,  what  about  what  Todge'  said  about  it  not  bein'  her 
rele  name?" 

"Well,  yes,  there  might  be  a  point.  But  I  say  she'd  think 
everybody'd  forgotten  about  that  young  man,  it's  all  so  long 
ago.  I  nearly  had,  not  about  the  Judge,  but  about  his 
nephew's  name.  Matter  of  fact,  she's  right.  Who  has 
remembered  ?  The  town's  changed.  All  these  new  people — 
you  can't  keep  up  with  them.  But  I  think  what  your  friend 
was  trying  to  say  was  that  her  real  name  was  Gedney.  It 
is,  it  was,  before  she  was  married.  Of  that  I'm  sure.  And 
she  couldn't  give  the  Ventress  name  up  because  she  had  a 
sentiment  about  it.  She  must  have  thought  she  was  mightily 


218         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

in  love  with  that  young  man  to  run  off  to  him  that  way. 
Probably  she's  just  taken  it  up  again  lately,  didn't  dare  use 
it  after  his  death.  But — everything's  queer  enough  about 
her — and  /  zvouldn't  put  it  past  her  I" 

Jason  said  nothing,  but  he  shook  his  head  several  times. 

"No,  Miss  Crome,"  he  said.  "You  ain't  convinced  me. 
Her  front  name's  this — now — A-deal-er." 

"Why,  but  of  course  she  wouldn't  give  herself  away  by 
using  her  real  first  name.  She  thinks  we've  all  -forgotten, 
that's  the  whole  point.  And  how  that  pleases  her!" 

"Yeah,  but,  Miss  Crome,  she's  met  Dr.  Gedney  an*  Mr. 
Pollock.  She  was  over  to  his  house  Fourth  o'  July.  I 
heard  him  say  so.'* 

"Once — at  night — outdoors.  And  you  know  he  doesn't 
trust  her.  As  for  Dr.  Gedney,  he  doesn't  hardly  know  what 
Bessie  looks  like,  he's  so  absent-minded.  And  after  twenty 
years.  Why  she'd  have  changed  out  of  all  recognition,  Mr. 
Duffitt. 

But  Mr.  Duffitt  still  demurred.  He  shook  his  head  a  good 
deal  more. 

"Well,  all  I  ask  you  is  to  think  it  over,"  said  Miss  Sophia 
Crome.  "There's  no  hurry.  But  listen  to  me.  If  it  is 
so — and  I  become  surer  of  it  every  minute  I  breathe — it's 
our  duty,  our  sacred  duty  (she  was  positively  quivering)  to 
see  that  the  Gedneys  know.  You  know  and  I  know  that 
that  woman  up  there  is  a  bad  influence  upon  this  town,  how 
ever  you  look  at  it.  I'll  bet  she's  led  a  hard  life.  She's  no 
proper  influence  for  Bessie  Gedney  either.  With  her  Sun 
day  cigarettes  and  her  vampish  ways  and  her  strange  vis 
itors  !  In  my  opinion  she's  a  bad  influence  and  a  bad  woman. 
O,  I  know  she's  quiet — quiet  is  the  worst  kind.  And  look 
at  her  opinions — is  that  being  an  honest,  God-fearing 
woman?  No.  No,  Mr.  Duffitt.  It's  our  sacred  duty  to 
get  this  to  the  Gedneys.  You  think  it  over." 

Mr.  Duffitt  did  so,  during  the  ensuing  days.  He  came 
gradually  to  believe  Miss  Crome  must  be  right.  She  seemed 
to  have  an  answer  for  every  objection.  As  for  "sacred 


IT  COMES  TO  MISS  CROME 

duty", — but  he  was  still  highly  nervous  as  to  what  Adela 
might  be  plotting  against  him  in  secret.  "Quiet  is  the  worst 
kind" !  That  phrase  had  a  special  meaning  for  him.  And 
wasn't  letting  the  truth  get  about — merely  the  truth,  under 
stand — an  excellent  way  forever  to  forestall  the  chance  of 
her  telling  lies  about  him  ?  She'd  be  sure  to  twist  it  all  into 
lies.  The  more  he  considered,  in  his  dull,  suspicious,  timor 
ous  mind,  the  more  Mr.  Duffitt  was  convinced. 

One  evening,  several  days  later,  he  told  Miss  Crome  so. 
They  discussed  the  best  way  for  the  news  to  be  broken  to 
the  town.  They  decided  to  disseminate  it  with  caution. 
They  nobly  waived  the  opportunity  to  crusade  openly.  They 
felt  no  fear  that,  in  the  end,  the  father  Gertrude  had  aban 
doned  so  cruelly  would  desire  her  continuing  presence  in 
Tupton.  The  main  thing  was  to  get  public  opinion  excited, 
anyway.  As  for  Uncle  Arthur,  they  felt  quite  sure  of  him, 
in  his  affection  for  Bessie  and  his  well-known  irascibility. 
And  he  was,  with  Dr.  Gedney,  such  an  influence. 

In  the  meantime,  two  weeks  passed.  One  day  Slade 
'phoned  Coryat  from  The  Colosseum  office. 

"Oh,  look  here;  I'm  going  to  Tupton  on  Friday,  to  begin 
my  two  weeks'  vacation.  It's  all  fixed.  Want  to  come? 
Love  to  have  you." 

The  answer  was  in  the  decided  affirmative.  But  it  was 
on  Thursday  that  Miss  Crome  began  her  devious  campaign. 

She  began  it  by  treating  conjecture  as  fact.  After  all, 
she  was  sure  in  her  own  mind.  Why  weaken  the  argument 
for  truth  with  Possiblys  and  Perhapses.  Also,  why  not 
tell  a  good  story  while  you  were  about  it.  Therefore,  in  the 
first  breathing  of  her  belief  to  Mrs.  Mixter  she  referred 
to  a  wholly  reliable  source  of  information  she  was  in  honour 
bound  not  to  reveal.  After  all,  similar  references  had  been 
made  by  certain  minor,  and  even  major  prophets  of  old — 
at  least  they  had  stated  the  case  in  a  generalisation.  It  all 
depends  upon  one's  assurance  of  divine  afflatus.  Miss  Crome 
had  ever  been  a  crusader,  though  a  modest  one.  Her  picture 
of  herself  would  not  have  been  recognised  as  authentic,  per- 


220         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

haps,  by  the  outside  observer.  But  in  her  own  breast,  she 
felt  positive,  burned  a  like  spiritual  fire  to  that  uplifting  the 
hearts  of  saints  and  martyrs.  The  singularity  of  the  first 
person,  the  mighty  I  Am  and  I  Do,  which  allays  all  our 
suspicions  of  ourselves  and  routs  our  sudden  discomfiting 
visions  of  our  motives,  had  reached  its  most  eccentric  flower 
ing  in  the  mind  of  Saint  Sophia. 

A  tale  retold  develops  like  a  negative  in  a  bath  of  acid. 
In  the  acid  bath  of  Miss  Crome's  thought  it  developed  beau 
tifully.  It  assumed  the  sharp  outlines  of  conviction  and 
a  thoroughly  photographic  realism.  As  her  story  spread  it 
even  began  to  convince  certain  men  of  the  town.  And  "good 
ole  Jase"  was  always  nearby  with  sober-sided  substantiation. 
Mr.  Duffitt  believed  it  himself,  now.  Miss  Sally  Barber,  the 
Cumsean  Sibyl  of  Sycamore  Street,  could  check  up  on  the 
name,  even  if  Mrs.  Harris,  the  Stoic,  hotly  pooh-poohed  the 
whole  story.  Sally  Barber  was  also,  surely,  a  quite  dis 
interested  party,  an  old  bed-ridden  woman  who  had  no  par 
ticular  axe  to  grind  for  or  against  anybody  in  Tupton.  She 
remembered,  down  to  exact  dates,  all  about  Roger  Ventress ; 
and  on  this  foundation  Miss  Crome  exercised  her  great  nat 
ural  gifts  for  embroidered  narrative. 


CHAPTER  XXIV:  UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB 
SHELL 


D 


R.  GEDNEY  was  reading: 

" announced  his  hypothesis  that  it  is  an  impossibility 

to  determine  by  physical  experiment  the  velocity  of  the  earth 
relative  to  ether,  moreover,  that  an  immobile  or  rigid  ether 
is  unthinkable,  and  that  there  is  no  such  thing  as  absolute 
velocity  through  space  for  any  body,  and  that  measured  time 
and  space  do  not  exist  as  independent  and  self-contained  con 
cepts,  but  are  always  conditioned  by  the  phenomena  that  they 
are  used  to  describe " 

Through  it  he  heard  the  gruff  voice  of  George  Syle  (the 
only  man  who  really  interested  him  in  Tupton)  dilating  upon 
Emmanuel  Kant's  antinomies,  and  the  penalty  of  reality. 
There  were  always  cigar  ashes  on  Syle's  vest.  He  never 
made  the  slightest  attempt  to  brush  them  off.  But  then  he 
was  one  of  The  Ten. 

Dr.  Gedney  read  : 

"It  is  this  phase  of  the  Einstein  theory  that  makes  it  ex 
pressible  in  terms  of  the  fourth  dimensional  calculus  of 
Minkowski  wherein  the  distinction  between  time  and  space 
vanishes " 

True.  What  were  space  and  time  ?  What  was  anything  ? 
Nothing.  He  heard  the  wheezy  spasmodic  laughter  of  Syle 
as  he  descended  suddenly  to  that  old  one — that  very  old 
one :  "What  is  mind  ?  No  matter.  What  is  matter  ?  Never 
mind."  Syle  was  growing  very  bald,  and  yet  his  coat  collar 
was  always  speckled  with  dandruff.  That  was,  if  not  an 
antinomy,  a  paradox. 

221 


222          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Dr.  Gedney  screwed  up  his  eyes  and  regarded  one  thumb 
tack  of  his  blotter  with  great  intensity.  His  book  lay  on  his 
knees,  between  his  hands  that  suddenly  clutched  and  shook 
the  covers.  No  way  to  treat  a  book. 

He  was  on  a  long  journey,  a  long  and  burning  journey, 
through  lisping  wastes  of  sand,  sand,  sand. 

"As  an  Arab  journeyeth  through  the  sands  of  Ayaman " 

Quotations  had  a  way  of  coming  into  his  head  like  that. 
You  read  and  forgot.  And  then  quotations  came  into  your 
head.  Like  confirmations,  like  warnings,  like  prophecies. 

"And  no  live  comfort  near  on  either  hand " 

"On  either  hand"  ?  That  couldn't  be  right.  Yes.  It  must 
be.  Another  quotation.  They  had  all  been  through  it,  you 
see.  All  been  through  it.  Most,  those  poets. 

No.  They  had  not  been  through  it.  They  only  guessed. 
Guessed  right — but  only  guessed.  If  they  had  known — they 
would  not  have  been  able  to  write.  Would  they? 

Sand. 

Arabs.    The  Arabian  Nights.    Burton. 

His  explication  of  native  poronography.  Quite  horrible. 
Interesting.  After  all — we  were  all  like  that — buried.  Then 
it  shook  the  bars  and  rage.  It  consumed  the  sun. 

Polygamy.  Decidedly  more  to  be  said  for  it  than 

But  the  Northern  races  were,  after  all,  less  occupied  with 
these  matters.  Thought  they  were,,  anyway.  He  differed 
with  Burton  about  frank  nastiness  being  less  harmful  than 
insidious  allusiveness.  Depended  upon  your  psychological 
makeup. 

Hunger. 

The  mind  went  on.  There  was  some  salvation  in  the  mind. 
Passion  was  a  weird  thing.  The  satisfaction  of  passion  was 
a  matter  of  so  brief  a  period  of  time.  Why  then,  when  satis 
faction  was  out  of  the  question,  did  it  gradually  take  hold  of 
a  major  part  of  one's  mental  life  till  it  strove  and  raged 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL 

and  wept  and  shook  the  pillars  of  the  dusty  world  with 
furred  and  ape-like  strength?  It  was  unconscionable. 

It  was  disgusting. 

" — wherein  the  distinction  between  space  and  time  van 
ishes.  The  two  become  complementary  and  inseparable  and 
cannot  exist  independently " 

Dr.  Gedney  cleared  his  throat  painfully, 

" and  cannot  exist  independently  any  more  than  the 

two  components  of  a  force  can  exist  by  themselves.  They 
are  simply  two  aspects  of  a  greater  construct  or  entity." 

That  "greater  construct"?  Every  approach  to  the  riddle 
involved  merely  new  phrasemongering.  The  riddle  re 
mained.  Why?  Why  this  peculiar  passion  for  irreconcil 
able  mystery  on  the  part  of  omnipotence  ?  To  what  possible 
end?  Evolution?  People  did  not  evolve.  They  stopped  at 
a  certain  point  and  then  began  either  to  ossify  or  retrograde. 
Back  to  childhood.  Like  Jeremiah  Mixter  on  Child  Labour. 
Pterodactyl.  What  was  that,  said  about  the  old  Speaker  of 
the  House?  "If  he  had  been  present  at  the  Creation  he 
would  have  been  on  the  side  of  Chaos"?  Ha! 

About  "as  little  children  entering  the  kingdom  of 
heaven".  .  . 

At  the  last  she  had  looked  just  like  a  little  child. 

Then — so  stern.  Noble.  Somewhere  else.  Removed. 
Alone.  Forever  ? 

Pain  drove  men  mad.  Madmen's  raving.  Silence  an 
swered.  Silence.  Silence.  Only  silence.  Forever? 

Sphinxlike.  Inscrutable.  Not  grief.  Not  happiness. 
Understanding.  Knowing.  Knowing  at  last. 

Afternoon  sunlight  had  touched  her  hair.  Fixed — entirely 
impassive.  Stillness,  and  flowers.  The  inscrutable.  And 
yet,  in  life If  it  were  all  worth  anything 

Some  way — it  must  be. 

Death,  after  all,  was  man's  one  moment  of  real  nobility. 
In  some  strange  way,  an  accolade.  To  the  worst  as  to  the 
best.  The  mockery  vanished.  A  door  opened.  Come.  .  .  . 

Dr.  Gedney  heard  the  voices  of  some  children  in  the  street, 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

chattering,  calling.  Scuff  of  footsteps.  A  whistle.  "Oo-oo 
Kay  tee!  Oo-oo  /Cavtee!"  A  bar  of  sunlight  lay  across  his 
desk.  Leaves  moved  at  the  window. 

"To  get  a  clear  conception  of  the  Einstein  theory  of  rela 
tivity  we  must  abandon  the  Newtonian  idea  that  absolute 
space  exists  and  extends  indefinitely  in  all  directions  and 
that  'absolute  time  flows  on'.  There  is,  moreover,  no  con 
stant  mass  and  no  force  acting  independently  of  the  velocity 
of  the  body  upon  which  it  acts.  Changes  in  the  shape  of 
bodies  and  changes  in  their  properties  occur  when  changes 
take  place  in  their  velocities " 

Uncle  Arthur  would  have  thought  "nothing  of"  the  Ein 
stein  theory.  Change  had  taken  place  in  his  velocity,  how 
ever,  though  he  confuted  Einstein  in  the  detail  that  it  had 
not  changed  the  shape  of  his  body.  It  had  certainly,  how 
ever,  changed  the  mental,  physical  and  spiritual  properties 
appertaining  to  Uncle  Arthur. 

He  whooshed  open  the  door  of  the  study  and  stood  pant 
ing  upon  the  threshold.  He  clutched  at  his  collar.  He  was 
as  crimson  in  the  face  as  a  turkey-cock's  wattles.  His  astig 
matic  eyes  bulged. 

Dr.  Gedney's  mouth  was  open. 

"Charley !"  gulped  the  sunset  monolith,  banging  the  door. 
"Wake  up!  For  God's  sake!" 

"What !"  Dr.  Gedney  sat  up  straight. 

Uncle  Arthur  swayed,  lowered  himself  into  a  large  leather 
chair  with  a  resounding  thump.  His  arms  spread  in  wide 
arcs  and  flopped  down  the  sides  of  the  chair.  He  "snorted 
like  a  buffalo". 

Then  he  began  staring  hypnotically  at  his  toes,  his  cheeks 
working  something  like  a  fish's  gills. 

Dr.  Gedney  peered  at  him.  "What  under  heaven  is  it, 
Arthur.  What  is  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I  begin  to  doubt  my  sanity,"  rejoined  Mr.  Pollock  in  a 
hoarse,  muffled  voice.  "I  begin  to  doubt  my  sanity." 

"Well,  you  certainly  supply  me  with  every  reason  for 
doubting  it.  Please  explain  yourself." 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL          225 

"Do  not  think  that  I  have  been  sleeping,"  returned  his 
huge  connection-by-marriage  with  a  sepulchral  groan. 
"While  others  slept  I  have  kept  watch — I  have  kept  watch !" 

This  seemingly  irrelevant  information  seemed  to  supply 
a  deep  satisfaction  in  the  midst  of  the  woe  apparent  upon  his 
face.  "I  have  kept  watch,"  he  repeated. 

Dr.  Gedney  was  annoyed. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  talking  about?" 

"But  you — closeted  in  your  study — aloof  from  the  world. 
However ." 

"Really,  Arthur,  if  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  be  intelli- 
gible ' 

"I  can  be  all  too  intelligible/  returned  his  brother-in-law, 
looking  at  him  with  a  portentous  frown.  "I  apologise  for 
having  allowed  my  feelings  to  master  me.  My  first  impulse 
: — an  overpowering  one — was  to  cry  to  us  all  with  the  voice 
of  a  Stentor, — 'Wake  up!'  But  I  apologise  for  it.  I  am 
shaken,  Charley,  badly  shaken!" 

"Yes?"  returned  Dr.  Gedney.  He  glared  at  him.  Well- 
meaning  though  he  was,  Arthur  was  so  emotional,  so  like  a 
bomb.  Hence,  probably,  the  word  bombastic.  In  the  midst 
of  Einstein  too ! 

Mr.  Pollock  passed  a  large  sanguine-coloured  handker 
chief  across  his  brow. 

"I  have  been  impetuous,"  he  cleared  his  throat.  "I  have 
been  impetuous,  unthinking.  Still,  the  suspicion  is  all  over 
town.  The  occasion  is  grave.  My  feelings  have  mas 
tered  me." 

A  puzzled,  pathetic  expression  had  come  upon  his  face, 
now  fading  from  its  apoplectic  hue.  He  heaved  a  great  sigh. 
He  sat  as  one  exhausted.  There  was  no  doubting  the  sin 
cerity  of  his  emotional  mood.  The  desk  clock  ticked  only 
three  times  before  he  went  on. 

"I  have  come  to  tell  you  what  is  being  said,  and  to  consult 
you.  Jeremiah  Mixter  came  to  the  store  this  morning  and  I 
talked  to  him  in  my  office.  He  had  first  gone  to  my  house. 
Mrs.  Mixter  had  insisted  that  he  speak  to  me.  She  is  in- 


226         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

clined  to  believe How  it  has  all  got  about  I  do  not 

know,  nor  do  they.  I  suspect  that  chattering  Miss  Crome — 
that  relic.  But  no  one  knows  how  such  suspicions 
spread " 

"Yes,  but  out  with  it!"  said  Dr.  Gedney  sharply.  "You 
have  told  me  nothing  yet." 

"I  am  coming  to  it.  I  am  earnestly  endeavouring  to  spare 
you,  Charles.  I — I — it  all  concerns  Bessie's  friend  Mrs. 
Ventress.  She  is — she  is " 

"Yes,  yes?" 

"She  is — they  are  all  saying  she  is — all  thinking  she  is — 
Gertrude." 

Dr.  Gedney  stared  at  him  a  moment  in  complete  amaze 
ment.  Then  a  queer  twisted  smile  came  upon  his  face.  Not 
his  natural  smile  but  an  indication  of  the  sudden  strain  he 
had  been  under. 

"Gertrude?"  he  said  softly,  incredulously,  in  his  rustling 
voice.  "Gertrude?" — as  the  significance  of  the  name  seemed 
for  the  first  time  to  be  borne  in  upon  him.  "Mrs.  Ventress 
Gertrude!  What  supreme  lunacy  is  this?" 

"So  I  said  at  first — in  my  own  manner.  But  the  story  has 
been  very  cleverly  spread  through  the  town.  The  Block 
is  talking  about  it,  and  the  newer  people.  I  am  met  with 
commiserating  glances  in  the  stores,  in  my  very  own  store — 
glances  and  remarks  overheard  that  I  was  at  first  at  a  loss 
to  understand.  Something  is  in  the  air.  I  knew  it.  I  felt 
it.  Then  this  revelation.  My  emotions  mastered  me.  I  was 
badly  shaken  but  I  confronted  Jeremiah  Mixter  with  a  face 
of  fury '" 


'But  really,  Arthur, — I- 


"A-ah !  Still  you  don't  see !"  It  could  not  be  denied  that 
his  own  rhetoric  worked  upon  Mr.  Pollock  as  a  stimulant. 
He  had  hardly  ever  been  able  to  do  anything  by  halves.  In 
repose  he  could  be  colloquially  genial,  odd  but  easy  to  get 
along  with.  Once  his  sentiment  was  touched,  however,  there 
was  no  telling  to  what  lengths  the  emotion  it  engendered 
would  carry  him.  Now  he  actually  gulped  and  mopped  his 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL          227 

face  again.  His  eyes  bulged  as  he  endeavoured  to  speak 
calmly. 

"We  must  go  back,  Charles, — go  back  to  the  day  when 
I  first  protested  to  you  against  allowing  Bessie  to  take  draw 
ing  lessons  with  this — this  Mrs.  Ventress." 

"But  I  fail  to  see "  The  whole  subject  of  discussion 

was  becoming  unreal  to  the  Doctor.  What  was  this  utterly 
absurd  hypothesis  he  was  listening  to  ? 

"Yes — that  has  been  in  it.  I  am  convinced  that  has  been 
in  it.  And  I  don't  know  what  subtle  machinations  that 
woman  may  have  woven  about  her.  I've  always  distrusted 
that  friendship.  I've  endeavoured  to  argue  with  Bessie. 
I've  endeavoured  to  make  some  impression  upon  your  aloof 
ness.  I  have  listened  to  all  the  ugly  rumours " 

"But  it  seems  to  me  you  are  mixing  the  whole  ridiculous 
matter  up  frightfully,  Arthur.  And  just  what  ugly  ru 
mours  ?" 

"Last  Sunday,"  said  Uncle  Arthur  weightily,  "one  to 
whom  I  may  only  refer  as  an  Individual  arrived  at  our  town 
and  called  upon — upon  Mrs.  Ventress.  He  was  there  the 
major  portion  of  the  afternoon  and  stayed  to  supper.  This 
they  assert  in  various  quarters.  He  left  on  the  eight-ten 
train  Sunday  night.  He  turned  out  to  be  an  old  school- 
friend  of  Jason  Duffitt's.  Mr.  Duffitt  has  corroborated  Jere 
miah  Mixter's  statement  that  the  man  had  remarked  to  him 
personally  that  'Ventress'  was  not  this  lady's  real  name. 
This  individual  was  flashily  dressed  and  employed  by  some 
corporation  in  New  York.  Further  than  this  he  refused 
to  reveal  his  identity." 

"Still, — why  that  is  mere  hearsay !" 

"Hearsay  it  may  be,"  returned  the  mountain  in  labour. 
"Hearsay  it  may  be.  But  it  is  believed.  Further  than  that — 
further  than  that  you  have  been  blind  and  deaf — yes,  though 
I  share  your  sense  of  shock  and  outrage  (which  was  not  so 
extremely  apparent) — I  must  say  it.  You  have  been  both 
blind  and  deaf,  Charles,  to  the  spread  of  opinion  in  this  town 
against  this  friend  of  Bessie's.  I  repeat  that  I  have  kept 


228          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

watch.  I  have  heard  again  and  again  what  was  being  said. 
I  have  apprised  myself  (Uncle  Arthur  paused — he  could 
not  help  it — over  the  rotundity  of  the  phrase),  I  have  ap 
prised  myself  of — of  her  reputation  for  secrecy  and  a  certain 
— what  may,  I  feel,  only  be  termed — looseness  of  living. 
You  are  witness  that  I  have  spoken  to  you  of  this  before, 
many  times !  You  have  seen  fit  in  each  case  to  pooh-pooh 
my  warnings.  I  have  seen  Slade,  our  innocent  nephew,  be 
coming  vitally  interested  in  this  woman.  He  spent  the  major 
part  of  Sunday  afternoon  in  her  company — smoking  ciga 
rettes " 

"I  thought  you  just  told  me  that  this  man  you  speak  of 
spent  'the  major  part'  (as  you  term  it) " 

"That  is  neither  here  nor  there*  Slade  was  there  for 
several  hours " 

"Well,  really,  Arthur,  that  is  no  secret.  Bessie  told  me 
herself  she  suggested  his  going  over.  As  for  the  ciga 
rettes " 

"But  this  woman  was  smoking  with  him,  all  afternoon. 
She  was  seen  smoking  with  him " 

Dr.  Gedney  could  not  check  an  exasperated  snort. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Arthur!  I  may  be  remote  from  the 
world's  affairs,  but  I  do  know  that  many  women  smoke, 
nowadays ;  especially  in  the  larger  cities.  In  England " 

"Possibly !  Possibly !  My  views,  as  you  know,  are  not 
governed  in  these  matters  by  the  opinion  of  the  herd ;  but  it 
was  Sunday  and  Slade's  stay  was  long.  They  were  seen  by 
casual  passersby  sitting  openly  upon  the  front  porch  smok 
ing  cigarettes.  They  were  sitting  very  close  together.  She 
is  a  much  older  woman.  This  naturally  has  made  much  dis 
agreeable  talk.  There  has  also  been  a  great  deal  of  talk 
about  her  friendship  with  Bessie — a  so  much  older  woman. 
Then  this — this  Individual,  with  his  mysterious  information. 
Mrs.  Ventress  is  known  throughout  the  town  for  her  pro 
nouncedly  radical  opinions  and  she  makes  friends  with  none. 
True,  she  seemed  pleasant  enough  and  well-behaved  at  the 
fireworks — I  know  that  is  what  you  are  opening  your  mouth 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL         229 

to  say ! — but  remember  that  your  instincts  are  blinded,  often, 
by  chivalry.  I,  Charles, — I  am  a  sophisticated  man  of  the 
world !  You  have  simply  no  conception  of  the  talk  that  has 
now  got  about.  Mrs.  Ventress  is  a  common  topic  in  the 
Old  Residence  Block,  as  well  as  among  those  who  matter 
much  less.  I  have  been  deeply  and  seriously  concerned  for 
us  all.  This  could  not  well  go  on.  Then — this  visit  from 
Jeremiah." 

He  had  proved  a  Jeremiah  indeed.  Uncle  Arthur  paused, 
gulping. 

"Then,  this  visit  from  Jeremiah/'  he  went  on  hastily  as 
Dr.  Gedney  snorted  again.  "This  new  and,  to  me  as  to  you, 
unbelievable  tale  concerning  the  identity  of  this — Mrs.  Vent 
ress — with  one,  who,  in  spite  of — who,  in  spite  of, — whose 
memory  will — what  ever  fools  may  think — always  be  dear 
to  us  all 1 !" 

The  trumpet  sang  truce  in  the  shape  of  Uncle  Arthur's 
handkerchief  applied  to  his  nose.  He  shook  his  head  vio 
lently  and  stamped  one  foot  upon  the  floor.  By  an  equally 
violent  effort  he  remained  in  his  chair,  tapping  his  foot  and 
clenching  and  unclenching  his  big  fists  upon  his  knees. 

"Moreover,"  he  suddenly  bawled  (that  is  the  only  term 
for  it).  "Moreover — when  has  she  ever  mentioned  her 
husband — tell  me  that!  When  has  she  ever  explained  the 
absence  of  her  husband?  They  are  saying  that — that — " 

"Come,  come,  Arthur.  I  am  not  deaf,  you  know !  This 

all  sounds  to  me  like  the  most  unutterable What  are 

they  saying  then?" 

"It  goes  back  even  farther.  Do  not  think  that  I  wish  to 
recall  a  sorrow  past  and  gone ." 

His  brother-in-law  certainly  did  exasperate  Dr.  Gedney. 
As  if  the  past  had  not  gone  permanently  and  indelibly 
deeper  with  him  than  it  could  ever  by  any  possibility  have 
gone  with  Arthur.  Arthur  knew  practically  nothing — sub 
stantially  nothing  at  all — how  could  he  ever  possibly  know  ? 

"Go  on!"  Dr.  Gedney's  voice  was  very  dry. 

"This  then.    Do  you  remember  a  young  man  years  ago, 


230          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

a  distant  relative,  a  protege  of  Judge  Lindon's,  who  came 
to  this  town  for  a  week  or  so,  about  the  time  of — about  the 
time  of — well,  of  that  Commencement  at  the  Institute  years 
ago.  He  called  here  once — did  he  not? — on  Gertrude " 

"A  young  man?  There  were  several  young  men.  I  don't 

recall O,  why,  I  believe  I  do  recall  that  there  was  some 

nephew  of  Judge  Lindon's  Gertrude  once  spoke  of,  but 
only  casually " 

"Do  you  remember  his  name?" 

"I  do  not.  Let  me  see.  Something  is  coming  back  though. 
Surely  it  was  that  nephew  of  Judge  Lindon's  who  met  with 
an  accident  or  something  in  New  York.  The  Judge  went  on 
to  see  him.  He  died  in  hospital  there.  That  precipitated  the 
Lindens'  moving  away.  But  I  don't  recall  the  name." 

"Exactly.  He  was  prostrated  in  the  heat  wave  in  New 
York  in  the  summer  of  1900.  The  Lindons  left  here  that 
fall.  I  had  completely  forgotten  the  whole  matter.  In 
fact,  it  seems  that  hardly  anyone  remembers  the  nephew 
except  Miss  Barber  on  Sycamore  Street.  That  old  woman 
remembers  everything  about  this  town.  Ain't  it  strange 
that  you — who  are  writing  a  history " 

"But  what  are  you  driving  at?  I  see  no  possible  con 
nection." 

"You  don't?  Simply  this.  It  is  now  asseverated  that 
the  young  man's  name  was  Ventress,  that  — I  must  speak 
openly,  Charles;  it  is  not  that  I  desire  any  more  than  you 
to  revive  the  past — that  Gertrude  and  he  had  some  sort 
of  an  understanding,  that  she  joined  him  in  New  York,  mar 
ried  him,  and  then,  after  his  sudden  accident  and  death,  in 
panic  disappeared  again,  neither  desiring  to  come  in  con 
tact  with  his  parents  or  Judge  Lindon  or  have  us  know 
anything  about  it.  They  are  sure  it  was  a  secret  marriage. 
But  all  that  we  might  pass  by.  However — it  is  asserted — • 
that  now,  after  years  of  obscurity,  she  has  come  again  to 
Tupton — the  name  being  the  same 

"Who  made  up  this  vicious  cock-and-bull  story?  Who 
concocted  this  cruel  lie?" 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL 

Dr.  Gedney's  eyes  were  blazing.  His  hand  shook  upon 
the  table.  For  the  first  time  that  afternoon  he  was  thor 
oughly  roused.  Uncle  Arthur  stared  at  him  with  an  expres 
sion  of  Gargantuan  alarm.  Dr.  Gedney  had  risen  and  stood 
erect  by  his  desk,  gripping  the  chair-back  till  his  knuckles 
whitened. 

"Of  all  the  preposterous  gossip  I  ever  heard!  Of  all  the 
malicious  lies !  I — !  No.  No.  I  can  talk  perfectly  calmly. 
I  will"  He  sat  down  again. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Arthur.  It  is  time  that  you  listened 
to  me!" 

He  spoke  again  in  a  calm  dry  voice,  sitting  slimly  upright ; 
and,  for  all  his  bulk,  the  large  figure  opposite  looked  lugu 
briously  pathetic  beside  him. 

"I  shall  tell  you  something  I  have  never  told  a  living 
soul.  But  before  I  begin,  may  I  point  out  a  palpable  incon 
sistency  in  your  emotional  point  of  view.  If  Mrs.  Ventress 
were  Gertrude — which  she  is  not — I  should  not  tolerate  for 
one  instant  your  suspicions  against  her  or  your  criticisms  of 
her.  As  it  is,  I  think  you  have  been  badly  misled  by  en 
tirely  distorted  rumours.  Some  of  your  charges  seem  to 
me  utterly  absurd. 

"Now,  I  shall  tell  you — something. 

"I  heard  from  Gertrude  in  the  month  after  her  mother's 
death.  For  reasons  sufficient  to  myself,  and  because  no 
other  human  being  has  any  right  to  intrude  upon  my  feel 
ings  in  this  matter,  most  of  what  was  written  in  that  letter 
shall  remain  sealed.  But  in  it  she  said  that,  though  unhappy, 
she  had  made  a  new  life  for  herself  and  wished  to  work  out 
her  own  destiny.  We  need  not  go  in  to  her  self-reproaches 
or  her  natural  grief.  That  chapter  is  closed.  She  would 
come  back  to  me,  she  said,  if  I  needed  her.  She  described 
her  circumstances  at  that  time.  She  was  the  secretary- 
companion  to  a  rich  woman  travelling  in  England.  She  was 
doing  some  writing  under  another  name.  Naturally  she  had 
not  retained  the  name  of  Gedney  either.  But  she  told  me 
the  address  of  a  friend  in  London  to  whom  I  might  write  her 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

under  her  real  name.    She  did  not  tell  me  the  name  she  had 
now  assumed. 

"I  spent  days  thinking  it  over.  I  saw  that  her  real  happi 
ness  must  lie  in  her  chosen  work.  She  knew  about  Bessie 
and  wanted  to  help  me  with  Bessie.  But  I  could  take  care 
of  Bessie  and  I  tried  to  look  ahead.  If  Gertrude  returned 
here  she  would  have  our  love  and  our  protection.  On  the 
other  hand  she  was  now  earning  her  own  living  and  if  she 
returned  to  Tupton  she  would — well,  you  have  seen  what 
this  town  is  for  gossip,  you  must  see  what  the  atmosphere 
outside  of  our  own  home  would  have  been  for  her.  She  was 
evidently  in  a  good  position  and  in  a  livelier,  more  interest 
ing  atmosphere.  I  wrote  immediately  after  I  had  come  to 
my  decision.  I  assured  her  both  of  my  forgiveness  and  my 
love,  of  my  most  earnest  wish  to  have  her  call  upon  me  at 
any  time  when  things  went  wrong,  when  she  was  in  the 
slightest  trouble  or  perplexity.  I  told  her  to  return  when 
ever  she  had  need  of  us.  Meanwhile  I  tried  to  take  an  un 
derstanding  point  of  view  toward  her  work.  I  received  a 
most  lovely  letter  in  reply,  thanking  me — and,  well,  you 
know  Gertrude — my  Gertrude.  She  assured  me  that  she 
was  all  right,  that  they  would  probably  be  indefinitely  in 
England ;  that  she  would  come  home  at  the  first  opportunity 
when  they  returned.  Since  then  I  have  received  two  letters 
a  year  regularly,  one  upon  my  birthday  in  April,  one  on 
Christmas  day.  They  have  been  continually  cheerful.  Con 
tinually  brave.  She  was  this  lady's  companion  for  ten  years, 
during  the  War  she  held  a  British  Government  position,  she 
has  never  been  very  specific,  but  I  have  been  able  to  follow 
her  in  general  through  her  life.  I  have  guarded  this  matter 
of  her  letters  with  the  most  extreme  care.  I  have  guarded 
it  even  from  Bessie.  I  took  the  precaution  of  taking  a  lock- 
box,  through  a  friend,  in  the  large  Post  Office  at  Barrack 
Falls  and  instructed  Gertrude  to  address  me  there.  I  see 
now  that  I  have  been  too  secret.  Perhaps  this  thing  has 
now  come  upon  me  because  I  have  been  too  secret.  Well, 
my  only  excuse  must  be,  that  it  all  has  gone  too  deep.  Martha 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL          233 

never  referred  again  to  Gertrude  while  she  lived.  Her  atti 
tude  drove  me  in  upon  myself.  After  her  death,  for  a  long 
time,  there  were  things  we  could  not  speak  about — even  you 

and  I.  My  pride "  Dr.  Gedney  looked  stonily  ahead 

of  him.  "Well,  so  it  is  anyway.  So  it  has  been.  Bessie 
has  sometimes  been  curious.  I  have  always  tried  to  assure 
her  of  my  belief  in  Gertrude's  happiness  though  I  could  not 
give  her  exact  reasons.  Lately  I  have  several  times  intended 
to  tell  her  the  whole  truth,  especially  since  Gertrude's  last 
letter  to  me  in — last  April.  It  was  a  buoyant  letter.  It 
cheered  me  very  much.  She  said  she  had  money,  friends, 
easy  employment  and  a  fine  outlook.  She  has  never  exactly 
specified,  gone  into  details,  but  I  could  see  that  everything 
was  well  with  her. 

"But  now — knowing  all  this — and  knowing  her  nature — 
do  you  see  what  a  farrago  of  utter  nonsense  this  is  that  you 
have  brought  to  me.  As  for  Mrs.  Ventress " 

Uncle  Arthur  was  silent.  He  had  been  staring  at  his 
brother-in-law  without  the  ability  to  speak.  He  opened  and 
shut  his  mouth.  Finally  he  brought  out, 

"Well— well— well,  but  Charley " 

"Yes  ?"  enunciated  Dr.  Gedney  crisply. 

"This  is  an  utter  revelation,  of  course, — an  utter  revela 
tion.  And  I  do  not  understand  why  you But  Charley. 

But  Mrs.  Ventress  too,  Bessie  says,  has  been  a  writer ?" 

"Arthur !  How  can  you  be  so  purblind.  In  the  first  place, 
even  after  all  these  years,  to  think  that  I  would  not  recognise 
my  own  daughter!  And  is  it  conceivable  that  Gertrude 
would  return  to  Tupton,  after  what  I  have  told  you,  bearing 
the  name  of  this  man  she  is  supposed  to  have  married " 

"Has  she  ever  married?" 

"To  judge  from  her  letters,  never." 

"She  never  said  anything?" 

"About  this  Ventress,  you  mean?     Nothing." 

"Well !" 

"Why, — would  she  make  this  friendship  with  Bessie  under 
my  very  eyes,  when  she  loves  me?  Why,  Arthur,  we  have 


234          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

both  seen  her.  Would  I "  Do  what  he  could  his  voice 

trembled  slightly.  "Is  it  conceivable  that  I  would  not  recog 
nise  her  ?  I  looked  at  Mrs.  Ventress  that  evening  most  par 
ticularly ." 

"O,"  he  suddenly  cried,  rising  abruptly,  "this  is  vicious, 
positively  vicious!  Whoever  has  fomented  these  lies,  these 
utter  lies!  It  is  the  one  way  they  could  have  stabbed  me. 
How  they  must  hate  me !" 

Uncle  Arthur  was  more  than  dismayed.  As  his  brother- 
in-law's  burning  eyes  looked  into  his  he  saw  that  they  glit 
tered  with  tears.  He  felt  utterly  unequal  to  the  situation. 
He  suddenly  wished  that  he  had  never  been  born.  He  never 
would  have  thought — that  Charley He  never  remem 
bered,  since  Martha's  death,  having  felt  such  a  miserable 
intruder. 

"Who  Mrs.  Ventress  really  is,"  Dr.  Gedney  went  on, 
resuming  control  of  his  voice,  "I  have  not  the  slightest  idea. 
If  it  is  not  her  real  name,  there  is  something  we  must  find 
out.  My  own  opinion  is  that  all  these  rumours  are  of  a 
piece,  a  tissue  of  lies.  Vicious  scandal  spread  by  half-witted 
busybodies.  I  have  trusted  Bessie's  instinct  throughout  and 
I  will  most  certainly  not  distrust  it  now  till  we  have  more 
to  go  on.  I  can  still  see  nothing  whatever  prima  facie 
against  Mrs.  Ventress.  No,  we  do  not  know  who  her  hus 
band  is,  nor  whether  she  is  divorced  or  widowed.  From 
what  I  have  heard  I  gathered  they  had  separated.  I  trust 
Slade's  instinct  also. 

"To  return  to — to  Gertrude.  It  is  just  barely  possible 
that,  after  a  strange  life,  if  it  had  been  unhappy,  we  would 
not  immediately  recognise  her.  We  have  only  seen  her  once. 
It  is  barely  possible;  but  to  me  it  is  thoroughly  impossible 
that  I  would  not  have  known  that  night.  But  to  even  imag 
ine  that  Gertrude — I  refuse  to  retain  for  an  instant  any 
such  nauseating  suspicions.  As  for  this  trumped-up  story, 
it  is  thoroughly  malicious " 

"We  must  immediately  confront  the  perpetrators  and  dis 
perse  it  then,"  cried  Uncle  Arthur,  lumbering  up. 


UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  BOMB-SHELL  235 

"No!  No,  I  tell  you.  I  will  not  have  Gertrude's  name 
bandied  about  this  town.  Let  it  die,  in  our  scorn.  Lies  die 
of  themselves." 

"But  you  have  no  conception  of  how  far  it  has  spread!" 

"Arthur !  My  daughter's  life  is  her  own.  To  refute  these 
absurd  allegations  I  should  have  to  speak  of  her  letters.  That 
I  will  never  do.  I  have  asked  little  of  life.  There  is  one 
thing  I  intend  to  keep.  I  intend  to  keep  the  love  between 
my  daughter  and  myself  sacred.  That  is  the  very  little  to 
which  I  claim  the  right,  but  I  claim  it  absolutely.  If  you 
ever  so  much  as  mention " 

Uncle  Arthur's  face  wavered  mountainously.  The  scar 
burned  on  his  face.  He  could  only  make  vague  elephantine 
gestures. 

"But  we  must  find  some  way.  This  situation  is  perfectly 
intolerable !" 

"Yes.  I  agree.  We  must  find  some  way.  But  not 
through  a  secret  which  is  mine  and  mine  only.  I  will 
never 

"No.    No.    I  know,  Charles.    But  I  intend  to " 

"Arthur,  if  you  arrive  at  any  plan  I  exact  your  promise 
that  you  will  do  or  say  nothing  without  first  consulting  me !" 

"All  right.     But  I  intend  to  find  out " 

"Arthur!  You  know  that  your  emotions  easily  run  away 
with  you — that  you  are  hasty  and  impulsive " 

"I  know — I  know — O  great  Xerxes — but  this  is  utterly 
intolerable.  I  mean  to  find  out.  I — I  mean  to  go  and  see 
Mrs.  Ventress !  I  mean  to  find  out  who  she  really  is !" 


CHAPTER  XXV:    CORYAT  IS  INOPPORTUNE 

SHE  lay  lazily  watching  the  gilding  sunlight.    The  white 
curtains  across  the  room  below  the   foot  of  her  bed 
waved  idly.     She  heard  Marie  moving  about  upstairs.     It 
must  be  very  early. 

Yes,  she  had  found  a  certain  peace  of  mind  here,  time 
to  think  it  all  over.  People,  of  course,  had  intruded.  People 
always  intruded.  She  was  aware  that  she  had  not  put  her 
self  out  for  them,  that  she  had  withdrawn.  But  that  was 
a  necessity  of  this  interim  of  her  life. 

She  had  done  one  good  piece  of  work  at  least.  That  was 
an  idea,  to  try  it  on  some  good  magazine  without  letting 
them  be  in  the  slightest  degree  aware  of  who  really  had  writ 
ten  it.  ... 

From  consideration  of  which  her  mind  turned  to  marvel 
ling  at  his  audacity  and  pertinacity.  To  have  ferreted  out 
her  whereabouts  and  followed  her.  .  .  . 

And  she  could  see,  lately,  that  Bessie  had  been  wondering 
more  and  more.  She  couldn't  keep  it  up  much  longer.  She 
certainly  had  not  planned  a  masquerade  that  might  turn 
cruel.  No,  that  would  have  been  too  cruel.  And  she  had 
been  careful  about  questioning  Bessie,  particularly  careful 
and  tactful.  She  hoped  she  would  be  able  to  do  things  for 
Bessie  some  day.  She  had  already  done  something. 

But  once  people  knew,  there  would  be  no  escape.  How  it 
clung  to  one.  And  they  were  bound  to  find  out.  It  was  re 
markable  that  they  had  not  done  so  before  this.  It  had  been 
an  entirely  impulsive  and  sentimental  mistake  to  come  here. 
It  had  been  a  mistake  to  want  to  see  them  all.  And  prob 
ably  it  had  been  cruel,  even  though  they  did  not  know. 
Sometimes  she  didn't  have  the  sense  she  was  born  with ! 

236 


CORY  AT  IS  INOPPORTUNE  237 

And  now  it  was  Slade  who  was  getting  too  interested. 
That  must  be  stopped ;  that  must  always  be  stopped.  In 
Slade's  case — Slade  and  Bessie.  That  must  be  arranged.  At 
all  events  she,  Adela,  had  escaped  that  other  "interested 
party".  .  .  . 

People  probably  thought  hers  was  a  cold  nature.  If  they 
only  knew!  After  the  smash-up  of  her  marriage,  if  Ethel 
Aspern  hadn't  had  this  brother.  .  .  . 

Idyllic  was  the  word.  Perhaps  it  was  better  that  way,  now 
that  the  most  frantic  pain  was  over  forever,  pain  that  had 
driven  her  more  savagely  to  work,  work,  work,  while  breath 
was  in  her.  Just  blind  work  at  first,  and  work  for  so  long, 
and  work — she  had  come  to  see — that  amounted  to  so  little. 
And  then  that  desperate  feeling  that  she  must  accomplish 
in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  How  he  had  helped  during  the 
mere  half-successes,  with  a  perfectly  rational  but  beautiful 
idealism.  After  he — well,  after  he  went  away — (after  all 
what  compulsion  was  there  upon  her  to  say  he  had — died, 
when  she  couldn't  bear  it?) — then,  in  her  pain,  in  her  almost 
frenzy,  she  had  laid  the  ideals  away,  with  the  thoughts  of 
him,  in  that  secret  place.  It  couldn't  be  work  like  that  any 
more.  That  had  been  what  it  was  going  to  be,  when — 
when No,  it  must  be  something  hard,  strange,  disagree 
able  at  first,  with  the  tang  of  bitterness  of  spirit  in  it.  That 
had  been  the  mistake,  the  way  she  had  taken,  at  first  in 
thorough  irony;  the  wrong  turning.  Then then,  ac 
cepting,  it  had  grown  easy ;  Nirvana,  the  narcotic.  And 
gradually  the  insidious  change  in  her  own  point  of  view. 
If  she  could  have  kept  her  original  attitude  toward  it,  but 
"we  first  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace."  She  smiled 
twistedly  as  the  quotation  crossed  her  mind.  Vice.  Well 
if  it  had  been  true  vice  it  might  even  have  been  better,  in 
a  way. 

But  now  it  would  cling  to  her  forever.  No,  she  could  not 
confess ! 

Help  and  affection  from  the  only  one  in  her  family  that 
she  loved,  and  money,  had  been  there  if  she  wished  to  call 


238          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

upon  him  for  them.  Well,  she  had  kept  up  the  affectionate 
bond  in  letters,  occasional  letters,  but  she  had  had  her  pride 
too.  That  had  been  one  reason,  she  had  had  to  make  good — 
to  repay  people — people  who  had  trusted  her. 

Well,  this  one  thing  was  good — this  secret  of  her  recent 
absence  from  Tupton.  No  one  had  known  her.  She  had 
left  it.  It  was  good.  .  .  . 

If  he  had  only  lived  .  .  .  But  now  it  was  the  right  track. 
She  had  come  nearer  to  him  than  for  a  long  while  .  .  .  She 
would  put  it  through ! 

It  was  going  to  be  a  hot  day.  She  would  do  a  few  er 
rands  on  Market  Street,  after  breakfast,  before  it  got  too 
hot.  .  .  . 

Dinah  White  was  the  first  encounter.  She  met  Dinah 
and  the  cat  Jezebel  as  she  was  closing  her  front  gate.  Dinah 
rolled  her  eyes  at  her.  She  sputtered  over  her  answer  to 
Adela's  smiling  "good  morning !"  She  kept  looking  at  Mrs. 
Ventress  curiously.  It  was  odd  in  Dinah.  It  continued  to 
puzzle  Adela  as  she  turned  down  the  Farm  Road. 

She  nearly  ran  into  Jason  Duffttt  at  the  corner  of  the  Farm 
Road  and  Market  Street.  She  was  satisfied  to  see  his  colour 
intensify  and  to  hear  him  mutter  something,  with  head 
averted,  as  he  hurried  away.  He  seemed  in  a  great  hurry. 
She  had  looked  straight  at  him  but  had  not  inclined  her 
head.  It  was  their  first  encounter  since  the  occasion  of  his 
conduct. 

In  the  drug-store  two  of  the  Other  Half  Rome,  in  striped 
sport  skirts  and  georgette  blouses,  were  giggling  and  gos- 
sipping  with  Jimmy  Hale,  the  clerk,  over  foamy  and  sickly- 
tinted  ice-cream  sodas.  They  stared  at  Adela's  entrance. 
They  began  talking  very  low  to  each  other  and  more  than 
once  exploded  in  a  muffled  laugh.  Then  they  were  very 
grave  again. 

"Good  morning!"  said  Adela  pleasantly  to  young  Hale. 
He  nodded,  and  answered  her,  but  flushed  a  little.  He 
looked  somewhat  sheepish.  He  attended  to  her  purchase  in 
silence.  The  two  girls  followed  her  about  the  store  with 


CORYAT  IS  INOPPORTUNE  239 

their  eyes  in  the  mirror  behind  the  soda-fountain.  She 
caught  them  doing  it.  Not  since  the  first  few  days  of  her 
arrival  in  Tupton  had  so  much  interest  been  publicly  evinced. 

Mrs.  Mixter  was  in  the  grocery.  She  hurried  out  to  her 
waiting  car.  She  overlooked  seeing  Adela.  Heads  and 
glances  were  turned  away  as  Mrs.  Ventress  looked  around. 
It  was  confusing  and  a  little  frightening.  Could  it  be?  Yes, 
of  course,  that  was  it.  They  had  found  out.  But  really — 
after  all 

She  could  not  keep  the  colour  from  coming  into  her  face, 
though  she  felt  it  pale  again  almost  immediately.  Well,  what 
of  it.  Her  eyes  narrowed.  She  met  the  nearest  person's 
gaze  with  a  cold,  abstract,  measuring  glance.  It  happened, 
however,  to  be  Rebecca  Stone,  who  immediately  came  over 
and  spoke  to  her.  As  Rebecca  seemed  natural  enough, 
Adela's  heart  softened.  But  she  did  not  understand.  Why 
did  they  all  seem  so  avoiding — except  Rebecca?  That  was 
the  peculiar  part  of  it.  You  would  have  thought 

Rebecca  seemed  to  be  speaking  needlessly  loud,  too.  She 
had  an  attitude  of  defiance  about  something.  There  was 
more  to  this.  What  on  earth  was  it?  General  Brattle  en 
tered  the  store  with  a  market-basket,  shopping  for  his  wife. 

Adela  took  her  package  from  the  grocer  who  gazed  at  her 
curiously.  There  was  a  smiling  droop  to  one  corner  of  his 
mouth.  He  acted  as  if  he  were  in  a  secret. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Ventress  was  overcome  by  a  positive  wave 
of  shyness.  She  turned  to  get  out — get  out  of  that  store 
and  get  home.  Even  if  they  had  found  out,  there  was  some 
thing  about  it  she  couldn't  understand.  Of  course,  she  might 
have  known  it  would  come  out;  still Maybe  they  sus 
pected  all  sorts  of  things  just  because Oh,  that  was  it, 

was  it  ?  She  suddenly  met  the  eyes  of  General  Brattle. 

He  gave  a  very  low  bow.  He  turned  away.  He  began 
talking  loudly  to  the  clerk. 

Adela  paused  an  instant.  Then  she  was  in  the  street. 
Rebecca  was  still  beside  her.  Adela  looked  at  her  with 


240          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

parted  lips  and  wide  open  eyes.  "Tell  me  what  it  is,  Re 
becca?"  she  asked  simply. 

"What?    Why,  there's  nothing—" 

"Don't  be  silly  with  me,"  returned  Adela  sharply.  "Tell 
me." 

"It's  just  their  idiocy,"  burst  out  Rebecca.  "I  don't  be 
lieve  it,  myself.  Don't  think  /  believe  it." 

"But  what  is  it?  I  must  know.  Is  it  what  7  think  it  is? 
Do  they  think  (she  hedged.  Perhaps  it  wasn't,  and  there 
was  no  use  giving  it  away,  if  not.),  do  they  think  I  am " 

Rebecca  looked  at  her  with  dawning  wonder.  Her  ex 
pression  slowly  assumed  the  tragic.  She  began  a  nod  like 
that  of  a  tranced  automaton. 

At  this  moment  a  familiar  voice  behind  Mrs.  Ventress 
said  "Good  morning!"  It  was  Slade. 

Adela  turned  to  him  with  a  rather  bewildered  expression, 
but  his  face  reassured  her.  It  was  smiling  and  natural. 

"Fine  morning,  isn't  it?" 

"Oh,  how  do  you  do.    I  didn't  know  you  had  returned." 

"Came  down  for  my  holiday — and,  by  the  way,  I've 
brought  a  friend."  Slade  smiled  with  teasing  in  his  eyes. 
"Someone  you  know  of,  at  least.  Here  he  is,"  as  a  figure 
approached  from  the  drug-store,  a  straw-hatted  figure.  Mrs. 
Ventress  gazed  dumbly. 

"Mrs.  Ventress,  this  is  Mr.  Coryat." 

She  had  tried  to  say  something.  Richard  Coryat  stood 
holding  his  straw  hat  at  a  stiffly  frozen  angle  of  fifty-five 
degrees.  His  mouth,  I  regret  to  say,  was  open. 

Slade  looked  puzzledly  from  one  to  the  other. 

"Uh — uh — why,  how  d'ye  do!"  emitted  Coryat  like  a 
clock-work  doll.  His  mouth  began  twitching. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Coryat,"  Adela  had  recovered  her 
voice  and  held  his  eye.  He  read  hers  unmistakably. 

"I  believe  you  people  do  know  each  other,"  blurted  Slade 
with  an  embarrassed  laugh. 

"Very  slightly,"  returned  Coryat,  all  politesse  but  still  a 


CORYAT  IS  INOPPORTUNE 

trifle  glassy.  "I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  Mrs. — 
er — Ventress  before." 

"Yes,  I  quite  recall  it  now,"  said  Adela  hurriedly.  She 
began  to  rattle  on  about  something,  about  New  York  and 
mutual  acquaintances,  all  the  while  aware  that  General 
Brattle  had  paused  not  two  feet  off,  overhearing  the  entire 
introduction,  and  that  Rebecca  Stone  had  slipped  away  to 
the  other  side  of  the  street  and  was  walking  slowly  down  it, 
head  bent  in  thought. 

Several  passersby,  who  seemed  mere  peering  phantoms  to 
Adela,  stared  at  the  three  now  turning  into  the  Farm  Road. 
Slade  walked  on  her  left,  Coryat  on  her  right.  She  was 
perfectly  furious  with  Richard  Coryat. 

A  graven  calm  came  upon  her.  She  felt  as  though  she 
could  exchange  conspicuously  inane  remarks  forever.  She 
was  aware  that  she  was  talking  rapidly  and  not  particularly 
well.  If  a  bolt  of  lightning  had  at  that  moment  reduced 
Richard  Coryat  to  ashes  she  would  only  have  raised  a  wild, 
hysterical  shout  of  joy.  Could  it  have  been  through  him 
that  the  town  knew — 

As  she  glanced  at  him  balefully  through  the  formal  courte- 
ousness  of  her  last  remark,  she  noted  that  he  looked  com 
paratively  well  and  cheerful.  It  was  an  insult  that  he  should 
look  so  cheerful.  Then  she  caught  him  covertly  smiling. 
Rage  seethed  within  her. 

It  was  too  much  altogether.  What  was  the  matter  with 
this  morning?  It  had  become  a  thoroughly  perplexing  un 
reality.  The  distance  to  her  gate  which  now  flashed  into  her 
mind  like  an  arbour  entrance  to  Paradise,  seemed  enormous. 
Her  suede  shoes  were  dusty.  She  had  forgotten  to  raise  her 
parasol.  She  glanced  at  Slade  and  caught  him  looking  at 
her  with  bewilderment.  Why  should  he  be  bewildered? 
What  casual,  clumsy  infants  men  were !  She  hated  him  too. 
She  loathed  both  her  escorts  suddenly  with  all  the  intensity 
of  her  sex. 

She  was  finally  nodding  and  smiling  to  them  at  her  gate. 
She  was  answering  their  request  to  call  with  an  acquiescence 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

she  immediately  regretted.  Again  she  fixed  her  eyes  on 
Coryat's  face. 

They  were  going  down  the  road  toward  Poplar  Street. 
Thank  Heaven! 

She  was  lying  back  in  the  Chinese  wicker  chair,  fanning 
herself  with  her  handkerchief.  But  if  her  secret  were  dis 
covered  anyway But  was  it  discovered?  The  whole 

morning  had  dismayed  her.  It  had  done  something  queer 
to  her  nerves.  What  was  it?  Did  they  know,  those  people? 

But  they  had  behaved  so  queerly!  Even  if  they  did 

What  on  earth  else  did  they  know  ?  What  did  they  imagine  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVI:    A  FERMENT  OF  MINDS 

SLADE  was  silent  for  a  moment,  as  they  walked  on. 
"Well,  now  you've  seen  her — and  I  see  you  know 
her — do  you  think ?" 

"Oh,  no !"  returned  Coryat.    "I  had  no  idea " 

"I  didn't  know !"  he  said  again. 

"But  you  do  know  her?" 

"Why — uh — yes — I — uh — I've  met  her  before.  I — uh — 
didn't  quite  remember " 

Slade  did  not  speak  his  thought.    He  said: 

"Isn't  she  delightful?" 

"Yes — uh — charming." 

As  Slade  turned  his  own  eyes  away  Coryat's  side-glance 
examined  him. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Slade,  "that  was  why  you  thought  you 
remembered  the  name?" 

"Yes — I  suppose, — no,  you  see  I — I  had  only  met  her 
very  casually." 

Slade  knew  that  was  a  lie. 

A  black  cloud  unaccountably  rilled  his  mind.  There  was 
something  wrong  about  the  whole  business.  There  was 
something  wrong  about  the  silence  and  slight  references  to 
Mrs.  Ventress  on  the  part  of  both  his  Uncle  Charles  and 
Bessie  at  breakfast  that  morning.  Both,  it  had  been  plain, 
were  worried  about  something.  But  neither  one,  on  the 
other  hand,  seemed  to  be  in  the  other's  confidence.  He 
caught  each  glancing  at  the  other  when  the  other  was  pre 
occupied.  As  for  Coryat,  he  was  turning  over  in  his  mind 
the  cryptic  conversation  he  had  overheard  in  the  drugstore. 

"Aw,"  said  the  soda  clerk  to  the  Other  Half  Rome.    "Aw, 

I  really  don't  believe  that.    It  stands  to  reason .," 

243 


244          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"That's  what  they're  all  saying,"  said  the  girl  with  the 
bronze  hair  and  orange  hair-ribbon.  "But,  good  grief,  they 
do  believe  it.  They're  talkin'  about  nothing  else.  It  seems 
she  ran  away  with  this  feller ." 

"And  she'd  be  libel  to  come  back  here  with  the  same 
name,"  retorted  the  clerk,  dipping  glasses,  his  bare  brown 
arms  plunged  beneath  the  counter.  It  was  satire. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  retorted  the  bronze- 
haired  girl,  swinging  herself  on  her  high  stool  by  means  of 
a  supporting  hand  against  the  marble  slab.  "She  wanted  to 
give  'em  the  once-over.  She's  rich  now,  ain't  she?" 

"  'Scuse  me,  May  belle,  yer  crazy.  She  wouldn't  be  that 
kind." 

"Well,  buh-lieve  me,  now,  I've  heard  things  about  this 
Mrs.  Ventress  might  prove  she  was  any  kind.  I  heard " 

But  just  what  Maybelle  had  heard  was  interrupted  by 
Coryat's  request  for  shaving-cream. 

'7  b'lieve  she's  this  Gedney  girl,"  he  heard  Maybelle's 
partner  say,  as  he  went  out  through  the  door.  What  on 
earth  had  she  meant  by  that?  What  was  it  all  about? 

Slade  had  heard  nothing  that  morning.  He  had  entered 
no  stores,  and  people  always  glanced  at  him  curiously  any 
way,  his  visits  being  rare  in  Tupton. 

The  minds  of  all  of  them  were  well  enough  occupied  that 
Saturday,  the  first  of  August. 

So  it  was  she!  Coryat  thought  But  now  of  course  his 
wild  surmise  was  proved  utterly  absurd.  Well,  he  would 
preserve  her  secret.  Yet,  despite  his  best  efforts,  a  small 
suspicion  persisted  in  whispering.  It  was  all  so  very  pe 
culiar. 

The  more  Slade  thought,  the  less  he  understood  it.  That 

other  man.  Now  Coryat.  Was  Coryat Was  she — ? 

Coryat's  search.  Had  she  a  husband?  He  must  know,  he 
must  know  definitely. 

The  more  Bessie  thought,  the  less  she  made  of  certain 
insinuations  she  had  heard  in  the  town.  She  only  knew  now 
that  Ventress  was  not  Adela's  real  name.  For  Slade,  if  not 


A  FERMENT  OF  MINDS  245 

for  herself, — though  this  was  merely  the  pride  of  the  martyr 
— she  must  know. 

The  more  Dr.  Gedney  thought,  the  less  he  knew  how  to 
deal  with  the  situation.  Arthur  was  certain  to  do  something 
rash.  Make  it  worse.  There  was  no  one  less  the  silent 
sleuth  than  Arthur.  How  had  the  absurd  rigmarole  started  ? 

As  for  Uncle  Arthur,  he  paced  up  and  down,  up  and  down 
his  cool  parlour  full  of  cases  of  stuffed  birds  and  cabinets 
of  silicates,  with  grim  lips  tightened  about  his  cigar.  His 
crooked  teeth  macerated  it.  His  nimbus  of  hair  stood  out 
every  which  way  from  his  head.  He  stumped  stertorously. 
He  was  almost  as  cross-eyed  as  Ben  Turpin  with  the  effort 
to  think  straight. 

Meanwhile  the  town  mumbled  and  murmured.  Three- 
fourths  of  it  was  sure  on  insufficient  evidence  that  the  Ged 
ney  girl  had  come  home.  Mankind  is  an  ingrained  myth- 
maker. 

The  young  people  went  for  a  walk  in  the  afternoon,  not 
in  the  direction  of  Mrs.  Ventress's, — if  indeed  we  can  in 
clude  Coryat  in  the  term  "young  people".  Dr.  Gedney  spent 
the  afternoon  in  his  study  and  garden,  trying  to  make  ug, 
his  mind  to  go  over  and  see  Mrs.  Ventress  himself.  He  did 
not  want  to  see  her. 

Miss  Crome  was  satisfied.  She  sat  in  her  parlour  like 
the  famous  arachnid  of  nursery-rhyme.  She  fanned  her 
self  with  a  palm-leaf  fan  and  waited  the  event. 

Jason  Duffitt  was  not  satisfied.  Too  many  were  talking. 
Miss  Crome  had  been  too  hasty.  He  did  not  see  the  end. 
He  did  not  know  exactly  what  he  feared,  but  he  feared. 

It  was  very  hot  in  the  afternoon  train  that  rumbled  into 
Tupton  at  three  o'clock.  The  few  arrivals  were  weary  and 
perspiring.  The  desk-clerk  in  the  Conestoga  House  was 
somnolent.  He  sat  drowsing  in  a  chair  whose  straw  bottom 
was  broken  and  filled  with  old  rubbed  newspapers.  His  feet 
were  elevated  to  the  ledge  of  the  window.  He  finally  re 
sponded  to  the  woman  who  rapped  on  the  desk.  She  looked 
shabby  and  weary  from  the  train.  She  wanted  a  room. 


246          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

He  drawled  out  information  about  rooms.  An  equally  som 
nolent  negro  in  a  faded,  stained  blue  uniform  whose  jacket 
was  open  revealing  a  soiled  and  collarless  shirt,  leaned  heav 
ily  on  the  wire  cable  of  the  most  ancient  type  of  elevator, 
which  creaked  and  trembled  in  revolt,  with  the  utmost  de 
liberation,  up  to  the  next  floor.  The  hall  was  thick-car 
peted  with  dusty  and  spotted  crimson,  even  in  this  weather. 
Silent  as  the  grave.  Down  it  they  padded  to  a  slatted  door. 
The  negro  clicked  a  large  nickel-plated  key  in  a  scratched 
lock  and  left  the  lady  to  the  mercies  of  a  broad,  flimsily- 
curtained  window  looking  out  on  a  drowsy  dusty  street 
wherein  the  only  object  of  interest  was  an  aged  horse  in  a 
fly-net,  hitched  to  a  sagging  surrey.  The  horse  switched  a 
discouraged  tail  across  bony  flanks. 

There  were  four  articles  of  furniture  in  the  room,  gleam 
ing  with  cracked  white  paint.  Viz:  One  large  double  bed, 
one  bureau,  one  tin  wash-stand  holding  a  white  china  basin 
and  pitcher  figured  with  forget-me-nots,  and  one  rocking- 
chair  with  a  bumper  of  stuffed  lace  tied  to  the  top  of  its 
back  by  soiled  baby-blue  ribbon.  The  Conestoga  House  had 
once  been  the  pride  of  the  Valley. 

The  recent  arrival  sighed  briefly.  She  was  very  tired. 
She  removed  shirtwaist  and  skirt  and  bathed  her  face,  neck 
and  arms  with  water  from  the  china  pitcher.  She  loosened 
her  hair.  She  had  already  drawn  down  the  wrinkled  green 
blind,  a  spiderweb  of  white  cracks.  She  lay  down  upon  the 
stuffy  bed  with  the  spread  drawn  over  her  knees.  Her  eyes 
pricked  with  dust.  The  room  was  too  hot  and  the  sunlight 
streamed  past  the  edges  of  the  blind  in  dusty  bars.  The  ar 
rival  lay  staring.  She  would  close  her  eyes  only  for  fugi 
tive  moments.  Her  white  face  lay  immobile  in  the  dark 
pool  of  her  hair.  She  was  trying  to  rest.  She  felt  utterly 

exhausted. 

*  *  * 

After  supper  Coryat  explained  to  Slade  that  he  thought 
he  ought  to  step  over  and  just  speak  to  Adela — a  polite  call. 
Of  course,  in  the  Terrill  matter,  there  was  nothing  to  find 


A  FERMENT  OF  MINDS 

out.  He  thought  he  manoeuvred  well.  Slade,  however,  on 
his  part,  disdained  to  show  that  he  had  any  Interest  in 
whether  Coryat  went  over  there  or  went  to  Jericho.  He 
said,  "Why,  certainly,  why  don't  you?"  with  a  smile.  But 
his  heart  beat. 

He  knew  now  once  and  for  all,  of  course,  that  she  didn't 
care  a  bean  for  him.  He  had  seen  it  in  her  coldness  to  him 
that  morning.  He  had  his  pride.  He  would  always,  of 
course,  distantly  adore  her.  Which  attitude  would  cer 
tainly  have  made  Adela  contrite,  had  she  realised  it,  but  she 
also  would  have  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  childishness  still  in  Slade. 

Doctor  Gedney  said  nothing  when  he  heard  that  Coryat 
was  going.  He  would  go  alone,  when  he  went.  He  went 
into  his  study. 

"How  about  a  walk,  Bess?"  asked  Slade.  "It's  rather 
cooler  this  evening." 


CHAPTER  XXVII:    THE  MISOGYNIST  CALLS 

CORYAT   sat  with  Adela  in  the  chequer  of   vineleaf 
shadows.    Beyond  the  porch  the  fireflies  winked  inces 
santly. 

"It  has  seemed  a  long  time  to  me,"  he  said  gravely.  "How 
have  you  been?" 

"I  thought  I  could  find  myself,"  she  replied.  "I  think 
I  have  made  a  start." 

He  was  silent. 

"Something  you've  written?'  he  asked  then. 

"Yes,  something  I've  written." 

"Good.  By  the  way,  I  suppose  you  haven't  heard  about 
the  claimant  to  authorship  of  The  Crystal  Castle' — you 
remember,  that  story  Slade  tells  me  he  told  you  about,  that 
came  into  The  Colosseum  anonymously?" 

"Why,  no !"  Adela  turned  toward  him  sharply.  The  next 
instant  she  sat  upright  in  her  long  chair.  A  large  figure 
had  mounted  the  porch  steps  and  stood  bulking  out  some  of 
the  moonlight. 

"Mrs.  Ventress?"  a  deep  voice  said  courteously.  "I  am 
Mr.  Pollock.  Oh,  pardon  me,  I  didn't  see "  He  re 
ferred  to  Richard. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Coryat?"  he  said  peering  closer.  "I — I  met 
you  this  morning.  You — er — a  fine  night  isn't  it?" 

"Yes;"  returned  Coryat,  who  had  risen.  "Er — Mrs.  Ven 
tress  turns  out  to  be  an  old  acquaintance.  We  were " 

"An  old  acquaintance — mm — indeed,"  said  Uncle  Arthur. 
"But  I  was  just  passing.  I  merely — I  will  go  along." 

"Oh,"  said  Adela,  wondering,  wondering.  "Won't  you 
sit  down?" 

248 


THE  MISOGYNIST  CALLS  249 

"Thank  you,  Mrs. — er— Ventress,  the— uh— the  fact  is 
—well " 

"But  perhaps  I  am  in  the  way  ?"  suggested  Coryat  quickly. 
"I— suppose  I " 

"Oh,  no,  no  indeed,  not  at  all, — I  was  just  passing  by. 
I "  He  seemed  inscrutably  vague. 

"If  there  is  anything  particular,"  offered  Adela,  "Mr.  Cor 
yat  will,  I'm  sure,  excuse  us  a  few  moments.  I  wanted  you 
to  look  at  my  garden  anyway  Mr.  Coryat.  It's  rather 
pretty  by  moonlight." 

This  last  was  said  as  he  stood  on  the  steps.  Taking  her 
hint  he  descended.  It  left  Uncle  Arthur  decidedly  uncom 
fortable,  but  he  lowered  himself  into  a  porch  chair  with 
something  like  a  groan.  There  seemed  to  be  nothing  else 
to  do. 

"I — uh — really,"  he  began.  "It  is — uh — I  don't  know 
exactly."  He  produced  the  ever-present  handkerchief  an4 
applied  it  to  his  face. 

"I  can  help  you,  perhaps,"  said  Adela  in  a  low  tone.  Her 
nerves  had  been  enough  played  upon  this  day.  She  was 
almost  at  the  end  of  her  patience. 

"Don't  think  I  am  unaware,"  she  hurried  on  tensely,  "of 
the  gossip  that  has  recently  centred  around  my  name  in  this 
town,  for  very  little  reason,  I  must  say.  But  in  coming  here 
I  suppose  I  let  myself  in  for  it.  But  I  see  your  point  before 
you  have  made  it,  Mr.  Pollock.  It  is  doing  Bessie  harm, 
whom  I  know  you  love,  and  our  friendship  must  stop.  That 
is  what  you  have  come  to  say.  Well,  I  will  spare  you  the 
trouble.  Since  my  name  is  assumed " 

"Assumed?"  gasped  Uncle  Arthur.  "Then  you  admit  it?" 
He  was  leaning  forward,  trying  to  see  her  face. 

"Why,  certainly.     I  know  now  you  all  know  it." 

"Assumed  ?"  mumbled  Uncle  Arthur,  groping.  "But  then 
— you  are — but  who  are  you  then?" 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  returned  Mrs.  Ventress  with  some 
asperity,  for  her  nerves  had  been  sorely  tried  bv  the  day's 


250          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

experience,  "do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  don't  really 
know?" 

She  saw  Uncle  Arthur's  face  actually  pale  in  the  moon 
light. 

"You  will  pardon  me — ah — er — but  I  have  been  seriously 
wrought  up — seriously  wrought  up.  I " 

His  voice  gave  a  queer  quaver.  He  stopped  and  mopped 
his  brow.  His  staring  eyes  never  left  her  face.  She  was 
sorry  for  him. 

"Are  you  then?  Can  it  be ?  But  it  is  all  so — so  ex 
tremely  difficult  to  say " 

Again  he  paused. 

"But  what  is  it,  Mr.  Pollock?    You  alarm  me." 

She  was  also  bending  forward,  her  eyes  wide  as  she  looked 
at  him. 

He  gathered  all  his  resources.  He  made  the  porch  chair 
tremble  with  his  agitation.  He  evidently  braced  himself. 
Then  the  question  burst  from  him: 

"Are  you  Gertrude?" 

"What — what — you  mean  you  have  thought — that  they 
have  thought " 

"No  one  would  have  thought  it,  but  there  has  been  an 
insidious  scandal  spread  by  malicious  miscreants.  They 

have  spread  the  rumour  that  you But  you  seem  to 

have  expected — to  have  known !" 

"Well,  naturally,  Mr.  Pollock,  I  have  known  of — of  your 
niece,  through  Bessie.  Naturally  I  have  thought  it  all  over. 
But  how  can  you  have  suspected !  How  could  it  pos 
sibly  be  that  I " 

"Then  why  is  your  name  'Mrs.  Ventress'?"  asked  Uncle 
Arthur,  point-blank. 

"But  my  name  is  not  Gertrude!'* 

"No,  but  it  is  Mrs.  Ventress." 

"Why — why,  now  you  ask  me,  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  I 
mean,  I  told  you  it  was  an  assumed  name.  Quite  assumed. 
It  just  came  into  my  head.  And  what  has  'Ventress'  to  do 
with  it?" 


THE  MISOGYNIST  CALLS  251 

"Mrs. — if  you  are  or  are  not — Mrs.  Ventress,"  rejoined 
Uncle  Arthur  heavily,  "I  have  paced  my  bedroom  by  night 
striving  to  solve  this  ghastly  mystery.  I  have  laboured  under 
a  heavy  weight  of  thought.  I  have  delved  in  our  public 
archives"  (he  meant,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  he  had  visited 
the  Tupton  Memorial  Library  for  back  files  of  the  old  Tup- 
ton  Crier).  "It  stands  in  black  and  white  upon  this  public 
print  that  a  Roger  Ventress  was  present  in  this  town  in  late 

June,  1900 "  He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  slim  yellowed 

newspaper  and  slapped  his  knee  with  it.  Flakes  of  yellow 
drifted  from  it. 

"I  purloined  this  document  from  the  files.  Deny  the 
name,  if  you  can!" 

Adela  rose  somehow  and  took  the  paper  from  him.  She 
stood  by  the  porch  pillar.  She  read  the  item  signifying  that 
"Mr.  Roger  Ventress,  nephew  of  Judge  Lindon,  is  now  in 
our  midst,  visiting  his  uncle  upon  the  Hill.  Mr.  Ventress 
comes  from  New  York,  where  he  is  highly  esteemed  in  the 
brokerage  business." 

"That  is  extremely  strange,"  admitted  Adela.  "But  still, 
I  don't  see "  She  held  the  paper  out  to  him. 

The  mountain  looked  upon  her.  Suddenly  it  arose  and 
came  close  to  her,  searching  her  face  with  astigmatic  eyes. 

"God  help  me,  /  would  not  know,"  it  avouched  dramati 
cally,  and  again  subsided  slowly  into  a  chair. 

"Do  you  actually  mean  to  say,  Mr.  Pollock,"  said  Adela 
slowly,  "that  you  doubt  whether  I  am  Gertrude  Gedney  or 
not?  Oh,  I  see,  now,"  she  added.  "That  was  what  they 
were  believing  down-town  to-day.  That  was  it !" 

"If  you  are  not,  Mrs.  Ventress,  you  will,  I  feel  sure,  ex 
plain  why  you  took  the  name " 

"But  I  don't  see,"  returned  Adela,  passing  a  hand  over 
her  forehead.  "Still  I  don't  see  what  connection  this  man 
had " 

"I  say,  none  whatever,"  exclaimed  Uncle  Arthur  suddenly 
from  the  gloom.  It  was  rather  frightening.  "I  say,  none 
whatever,  and  that  it  is  a  horrible  and  malicious  slander 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

upon  the — upon But  there  is  this  suspicion,  spread 

by  God  knows  what  abominable  miscreants." 

"I  see,"  murmured  Mrs.  Ventress.  Her  imagination  hov 
ered. 

Suddenly  a  feeling  of  shame  overcame  her.  Why  had 
she  come  here?  Why  had  she  followed  her  impulse?  How 
she  had  managed  to  hurt  them  all,  somehow, — even  Bessie, 
Bessie,  of  whom  she  was  so  genuinely  fond.  How  could 
she  ever  really  explain?  It  would  seem  to  them,  wouldn't 
it,  like  such  witless  cruelty? 

She  stood  silent. 

"Mr.  Pollock,"  she  cried  then  impulsively.  "Won't  you 
believe  that  I  am  telling  you  the  truth,  even  if  I  can't  tell 
you  the  whole  truth.  Won't  you  believe  that  I  am  not — 
not  your  niece.  I  am  not.  And  I  will  explain.  But — but 
I  can't  just  yet.  Won't  you  trust  me?" 

"If  I  could  understand  that  name "  Uncle  Arthur 

muttered  in  the  shadow.  "If  I  could  understand  that 


"But  I  don't  know  where  I  got  it !"  cried  Adela  agitatedly. 

Coryat's  figure  glimmered  out  of  the  garden.  He  came  up 
to  the  steps.  The  raised  voices  had  made  him  return. 

"Mr.  Coryat,"  she  turned  to  him  on  impulse.  "Please 
come  up  here.  You  know  who  I  am.  Tell  him!  Tell  him 
the  truth!" 

It  was  absurd  and  impossible  to  hope  to  keep  that  a  secret 
any  longer. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII:     A    REVELATION    AND    A 
RESCUE 

BESSIE  and  Slade  had  accompanied  Coryat  to  Mrs.  Ven- 
tress's  gate,  passing  on.  They  had  turned  down  the 
Farm  Road.  They  walked  in  silence,  each  with  their  own 
thoughts. 

"I  don't  care,"  Bessie  was  saying  to  herself.  "I  don't  care, 
I  know  she's  true  blue.  And  I  don't  care  about  Slade 
either,"  she  added  to  herself,  hardly  realising  it.  She  ought 
to  speak  to  him  about  it,  she  supposed.  She  supposed  she 
ought  not  to  have  told  him  to  go  over  and  see  Adela  that 
afternoon.  She  knew  that  Fourth  of  July  evening  that  he 
had  fallen  in  love  with  Adela.  She  ought  to  have  reminded 
him  that  perhaps,  after  all,  Adela  was  still  married.  But 
how  could  you  ?  And  the  way  she  herself  felt  about  Adela. 
You  couldn't,  that  was  all. 

Maybe  others  would  have,  maybe  others  could  have  ques 
tioned  Adela,  advised  Slade.  How  could  she,  so  much 
younger?  If  they  were  separated — then  it  would  be  all 

right,  maybe,  eventually .  She  didn't  know.  She  didn't 

know  how  anything  would  come  out.  How  could  she? 
People  had  their  own  lives  to  live,  didn't  they?  It  wasn't 
so  impossible,  if  two  people  loved  each  other.  Did  Adela 
love  him?  She  didn't  believe  so.  But  she  might.  Who 
wouldn't !  Still.  Was  it  her  responsibility  to  speak  to  him, 
about  this  rumour?  She  couldn't.  Why  was  it?  Maybe 
she  could  tell  Slade  so  that  he  would  trust  Adela  as  she, 
Bessie,  trusted  her.  .  .  . 

Slade  was  thinking:  What  are  they  talking  about  now? 
Of  course  she  didn't  write  it.  Well,  why  is  he  so  mysterious 
about  her?  Why  do  they,  somehow,  seem  so  intimate?  It 

253 


254          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

must  be  she  he  had  been  trying  to  find.  You  could  see  how 
well  they  knew  each  other.  He  just  pretended  to  think  she 
might  have  written  the  story  in  order  to  make  an  excuse 
to  come  down  here.  He  didn't  want  her  to  think  he  was 
running  after  her,  but  he  wants  to  make  up.  Oh,  no,  maybe 
that's  all  rot.  Still.  Well,  what  did  it  matter.  But  maybe 
she  had  changed  her  name.  That  was  it,  that  was  why  it 
had  startled  him  when  he  heard  it.  She  had  got  it  out  of 
something  in  their  past — Ventress.  And  he  hadn't  forgot 
ten  altogether.  They  had  separated,  and  she  changed  her 
name,  and  he  was  hunting  for  her.  That  must  be  it! 
(Slade's  imagination  was  burning.)  It  was  clear,  clear  as 
day!  Well,  after  all,  one  couldn't  help  liking  him,  and, 
somehow,  adoring  her.  Fini,  though.  Oh,  well,  oh,  well! 

"Slade,"  said  Bessie,  "I  don't  want  you  to  think  what  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  changes  my  opinion  of  Adela  one  par 
ticle  or  alters  one  particle  my  love  for  her.  But  I  just  want 
to  tell  you  that  Ventress,  they  are  saying, — not  that  it's 
necessarily  true  at  all — isn't  her  real  name.  I  thought  I 
ought  to  tell  you — but  I  don't  want  you  to  think— — " 

Of  course,  it  wasn't.     Confirmation. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Slade.    "Or  rather,  I  guessed  it." 

"You  did?    How?" 

"Why  because  I  think, — no,  now  I  know " 

Suddenly  he  found  himself  telling  her  the  thoughts  his 
mind  had  just  traversed,  the  exact  thoughts.  Then,  as  some 
elaboration  was  demanded,  he  recounted  to  her  the  main 
points  of  his  conversations  with  Coryat.  Meanwhile  they 
had  crossed  Market  Street,  they  had  lingered  along  Larch 
to  Laurel.  They  turned  south  on  Laurel  along  the  silent 
moonlit  road.  Bessie  was  listening  intently.  When  he  fin 
ished  there  was  a  silence. 

Then,  "I'm  very  sorry  if  that's  true,  because  I  know," 
she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"Know  what?     What  do  you  mean    Bess?" 

"That  you're  in  love  with  her." 

Softly  as  they  had  been  spoken  the  words  rang  in  Slade's 


A  REVELATION  AND  A  RESCUE          255 

ears.  And  the  ringing  of  them  raised  a  sudden  question  he 
had  never  expected. 

The  slim  figure  beside  him  continued  to  move  on  silently. 
Then  Bessie  stopped  and  turned  her  full  face  toward  him. 

"Aren't  you?"  she  asked  honestly. 

She  asked  that. 

He  looked  at  her.  Why  had  they  grown  so  grave,  so 
much  older  with  each  other  lately?  He  looked  at  her.  His 
eyes  could  not  leave  her  face. 

"I — I  admire  Mrs.  Ventress  very  much.  I — I  adore  her 
in  a  certain  way.  She — doesn't  care  one  particle  for  me. 
You  know  that." 

Was  it  he,  standing  there,  awkwardly  stirring  the  white 
dust  with  his  shoe,  almost  like  a  school-boy?  Was  it 
Bessie?  She  stood  gracefully,  her  head  bent  toward  him, 
dark  and  somehow  burning,  her  face  a  moonlit  pallor  under 
her  dark  straying  hair,  against  the  hedge  brightened  to  a 
theatrical  green  by  the  arc-light  on  its  high  pole,  sizzing 
beyond  them. 

Who  were  these  people  ? 

People  who  had  come  a  long  way.  Two  from  the  ends  of 
the  earth,  somehow;  and  somehow  two  who  had  always 
known  each  other  profoundly. 

"I  know,"  said  Bessie.  Her  hand  touched  his  arm  as 
lightly  as  a  mist.  "But,  Slade,  if  you  think  she  doesn't  love 
you  now,  she  would,  you  know,  I'm — Fm  sure " 

He  looked  at  her. 

Her  eyes  were  dark  for  his  pain. 

They  turned  and  walked  slowly  on  without  words.  Un 
consciously  they  drew  closer  to  each  other.  They  passed 
the  arc-light,  stepped  into  the  shadow.  Ahead  of  them 
loomed  the  old  Laurel  Street  Bridge.  Nothing  seemed  real 
to  either  but  their  own  hearts  beating. 

Slade's  blurred  eyes  searched  the  road  ahead.  He  stared 
blindly.  He  saw 

He  saw  a  part  of  the  right-hand  parapet  of  the  bridge 
across  the  Passamint  rise  up  and  topple  over  the  edge.  A 


256          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

full  second  later,  as  he  halted,  brushing  a  hand  over  his 
eyes,  he  heard  a  faint  splash. 

"Bess !"  he  cried,  and  before  his  mind  could  catch  up,  his 
feet  had  started  running. 

His  heart  thumped  as  he  ran.  He  heard  Bessie's  foot 
fall  behind  him  and  the  swish  of  her  skirt. 

"What  is  it,  Slade?" 

He  was  at  the  parapet,  leaning  over. 

"Dunno.     It's— there's " 

In  a  flash  he  remembered  from  boyhood.  The  river  was 
deep  under  the  bridge. 

"Slade!"  As  he  wrenched  off  his  coat,  poised  in  white 
flannel  trousers  and  white  shirt,  he  heard  her  behind  him. 
His  knees  bent.  His  sneakers  gripped  the  parapet.  By  the 
moonlight  he  saw  the  blot  moving  in  the  water  below. 

It  was  a  pretty  dive.  Slade  had  always  been  a  pretty 
swimmer. 

It  was  the  longest  three  seconds  of  Bessie's  life. 

His  hand  flashed  up  in  the  moonlight  to  reassure  her. 
He  and  whoever  it  was  were  struggling.  She  saw  the  heads 
together,  an  arm  up.  They  disappeared  in  a  splatter  of  sil 
ver.  They  bobbed  up  again.  Silver  began  to  trail.  Slade 
was  towing  for  the  right  bank. 

Bessie  was  down  through  brush  and  brambles  at  the  edge 
of  the  road.  Her  foot  turned  on  a  sliding  stone.  She  was 
up  again,  her  dress  torn,  panting.  She  was  jumping  ac 
curately  from  rubble  to  turf,  stooping  under  a  low-swung 
branch,  out  by  the  water. 

The  dark  heads  moved  in  slowly,  one  dim  blot.  She 
could  hear  Slade's  laboured  breathing.  A  gulp.  He  was 
towing  backward,  swimming  on  his  back.  They  were  nearer. 
Bessie,  careless  of  white  shoes,  was  splashing  into  the  shal 
lows. 

Her  arm  was  under  the  back  of  the  limp  wet  thing.  The 
head  rolled  over,  sagging  in  its  soggy  hair.  Slade  was 
threshing  to  his  knees,  to  his  feet,  his  skin  showed  pink 
through  his  soaked  clinging  shirt.  Her  dragging  feet  scored 


A  REVELATION  AND  A  RESCUE          257 

the  gravel,  as  they  lifted  her.  Slade  was  standing  over  her, 
moving  her  arms  up  and  down,  up  and  down.  "Thank  God," 
gasping,  "there's  a  log." 

It  was  not  needed.  Horrible  as  some  details  seemed, 
ghastly  as  the  face  was,  the  eyes  finally  opened,  staring  at 
nothing.  The  teeth  thinly  rattled.  "Ooo!"  moaned  Bessie. 
"She's  shivering,"  said  Slade.  "She's  soaked."  He  saw 
his  coat  in  Bessie's  hand  and,  lifting  the  woman,  got  it  around 
her  shoulders.  "We  must  get  her  up  to  the  house." 

There  was  a  faint  ripple  of  boards  from  the  bridge  above. 

"Hey!"  shouted  Slade.    "Hey!     Got  a  car?" 

"What?"  yelled  a  voice  back. 

"Quick!"  shouted  Slade.     "Come  down  here!" 

"What  is  it  ?"    A  form  appeared  at  the  parapet. 

"Woman  tried  to  drown  herself.  Can  you  drive  us? 
Come  down  and  help  lift  her,  will  you?" 

"Sure.    Wait  a  minute." 

It  turned  out  to  be  young  Wilder  in  the  farm  Ford.  He 
had  a  flask,  too.  The  two  young  men  staggered  up  the  bank 
with  the  inert  but  breathing  woman.  Bessie  picked  her  way, 
following. 

The  woman  leaned  helplessly  against  Slade's  shoulder  in 
the  Ford.  Bessie  chafed  one  hand  and  arm,  clammy  as  wet 
seaweed.  The  engine  was  running.  The  car  jerked  for 
ward.  There  was  a  rasp  of  gears. 

"Yeah,  better  drive  her  right  up  to  Dr.  Gedney's,"  said 
Slade.  The  Wilder  boy  was  excited,  but  he  drove  carefully. 
The  woman's  eyelids  fluttered  and  fluttered.  Her  breath 
came  fluttering. 


Dr.  Gedney  had  been  alone  in  his  study,  reading  under 
his  green-shaded  drop-light.  Finally  he  had  glanced  up  from 
the  volume  of  Voltaire's  General  History  lying  before  him. 
He  had  been  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  Scanderbeg  of 
Albania.  There  was  full  moonlight  in  the  side  yard, 


258         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

twisted  old  apple-tree  writhed  dark,  pooling  shadow.  Did 
something  move  beneath  it?  He  distinctly  saw  something 
move.  The  window  was  open.  He  called,  "Bessie !" 

A  form  had  detached  itself,  had  made  indistinctly  across 
the  yard  to  the  street.  Somebody.  He  could  not  see  accu 
rately.  "Who  is  it?"  he  had  called  in  his  high  mild  voice. 
Whoever  it  was  had  disappeared.  He  went  out  into  the  hall, 
out  on  the  porch.  He  went  down  the  porch  steps,  down  the 
path  to  the  gate.  He  had  looked  up  and  down  Poplar  Street. 
Nobody.  The  branching  elms  were  thick  and  shady  down 
Poplar  Street.  Perhaps  that  was  why  it  was  called  Poplar 
Street.  There  was  a  street  lamp  five  yards  off — beyond  that, 
thickening  shadow.  Could  that  be  someone  moving,  far  off  ? 
Still.  "Funny,"  Dr.  Gedney  had  mused. 

"Some  boy  playing  tricks,"  Dr.  Gedney  had  decided, 
mounting  the  steps. 


Coryat  had  finished  his  explanation.  Mrs.  Ventress  had 
finished  her  addenda.  Uncle  Arthur  was  finished. 

The  rushing  rattle  of  a  car  came  up  the  Farm  Road.  It 
slowed,  slurred,  rasped,  rattled  into  the  Axter  Road.  Coryat 
turned  on  the  steps.  Adela  stood  distinct  in  the  moonlight. 
She  heard  a  voice  call  something  beyond  the  hedge,  as  the 
car  volleyed  past,  swaying  in  a  rut.  Had  it  been  Bessie's 
voice  ? 

"What's  that?"  asked  Uncle  Arthur,  lumbering  up.  Cor 
yat  had  run  down  to  the  gate.  "They're  turning  into  Pop 
lar.  Someone  called  to  us,  didn't  they?" 

"I  thought  it  sounded  like  Bessie,"  answered  Adela,  be 
wildered. 

"Let's "  began  Coryat.  But  crises  are  felt,  not  talked 

about.  They  were  all  three  out  of  the  gate  and  moving  to 
ward  the  Poplar  Street  corner  before  they  realised  they  had 
acted  at  all.  Looking  from  the  corner  they  saw  by  the  nearby 
lamp  a  group  of  figures  near  the  Gedney  gate.  The  tail- 


A  REVELATION  AND  A  RESCUE          259 

light  of  the  Ford.  It  was  drawn  up  in  the  gutter  with  throb 
bing  engine. 

By  the  time  Uncle  Arthur,  Coryat  and  Mrs.  Ventress  ar 
rived  on  the  spot,  someone  had  been  hurriedly  carried  up  the 
porch-steps  by  Slade  and  the  Wilder  boy.  Bessie  explained 
to  them  breathlessly.  Mrs.  Ventress  followed  her  into  the 
house  and  upstairs. 

"Run  around  on  Sycamore  and  ask  Mrs.  Harris  if  she'll 
come  over.  Tell  her  it's  an  emergency.  Tell  her  Arthur 
Pollock  is  asking,"  said  Uncle  Arthur  to  the  somewhat  dazed 
driver  of  the  car  as  he  descended  again  from  the  upper  floor. 
"She'll  come.  We'll  need  her.  Then— I'll  be  mightily  grate 
ful — will  you  go  for  Dr.  John  ?" 

"My  land,"  said  Mrs.  Harris.  Then  "No  need  to  explain. 
Here ;  that's  all  right.  Door  didn't  snap,  that's  all.  I'm  in." 
She  paused  for  nothing,  not  even  for  her  hat. 

Dr.  John  Cornelius  might  not  believe  in  the  world  state,  but 
he  was  at  the  Gedney  house  within  fifteen  minutes. 

Mrs.  Ventress  was  sitting  by  the  bedside  upstairs.  She 
had  been  displaying  great  practicality.  Slade  had  insisted 
that  it  be  his  room,  properly  the  spare-room.  Mrs.  Harris 
was  moving  about  efficiently.  Bessie  hovered. 

In  the  long  living-room  below  the  four  men  stepped  about 
awkwardly  over  each  other's  feet,  gathered  near  the  fire 
place.  They  conversed  in  low  voices. 

After  some  waiting,  the  stairs  creaked.  Dr.  John  Cor 
nelius  said  from  the  doorway,  "She's  all  right.  Exhausted, 
that's  all.  Nothing's  been  found  to  identify  her.  She's  been 
conscious  but  too  dazed  to  talk.  A  little  out  of  her  head  too. 
Let  her  sleep,  that's  all." 

Slade  had  immediately  been  bundled  away  to  change.  He 
was  now  clothed  dryly,  though  not  altogether  in  his  right 
mind. 

"My  nephew,  Doctor,"  said  Dr.  Gedney.  Dr.  John  shook 
hands  with  Slade. 

"Quick  work,"  he  said  dryly.  "That  lady  owes  you  her 
life,  eh?  (He  winked.)  No  need  to  notify  anyone  Gedney. 


260          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Attempted  suicide's  not  a  felony  in  this  state.  Guess  that 
was  it,  what?  She's  absolutely  all  right.  Keep  her  quiet. 
That's  all.  You  can  keep  her  here  to-night,  can't  you  ?" 

"Oh,  certainly,  certainly!" 

"Right.  Course  it  may  have  been  an  accident.  We'll  try 
to  find  out  who  she  is.  G'night." 


CHAPTER  XXIX:    MISS  ANN  COLE  AGAIN 

YOU  didn't  see  her?"  Uncle  Arthur  turned  to  Dr.  Ged- 
ney. 

"Just  a  bare  glimpse.    A  white  face.    Closed  eyes." 

"There's  something  fine  about  her  face,"  said  Slade.  "She 
seems  awfully  frail,  though.  I  hope  the  shock " 

"Well,  Dr.  John  seems  to  think  it's  all  right,"  returned 
his  bulky  uncle. 

"I  know.    But  you  can't  tell." 

"I  suppose  there's  no  use  going  up?"  asked  Dr.  Gedney 
nervously.  "I — I  don't  think  we  should  make  Mrs.  Ven- 
tress " 

"I  don't  think  she  should  have  any  worry  about  this, 
either/  said  Slade  quickly,  "I'll  go  up  and  see  if  I  can't 
persuade  her " 

He  went  out  of  the  door. 

"You  may  set  your  mind  at  rest  about  one  thing,  Charles," 
said  Uncle  Arthur.  "About  Mrs.  Ventress.  Mr.  Coryat 
and  I " 

They  heard  Slade's  voice  overhead.  The  shutting  of  a 
door.  The  murmuring  of  voices.  Uncle  Arthur  began  to 
explain  what  he  meant. 

"So  you  see,"  he  concluded,  "we  have  all  been  under  a 
grave  misapprehension.  She  still  doesn't  know  how  the 
name — but  really,  I — er — er — I — somehow  I  feel  as  though 
we  owed  her  an  apology." 

They  heard  a  woman's  step,  and  a  heavier  one,  coming 
downstairs. 

"I'm  taking  Mrs.  Ventress  home,"  said  Slade  in  the  door- 
. 

"Good  night,  Doctor.  She's  sleeping  quietly,"  said  Adela's 

261 


THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

own  voice  at  Slade's  shoulder.  All  three  men  moved  for 
ward.  Mrs.  Ventress  nodded  and  said  good  night.  Dr. 
Gedney  accompanied  her  and  Slade  through  the  screen  door 
out  onto  the  porch.  Under  the  porch  light  she  knew  his  eyes 
upon  her.  She  gazed  back  at  him  frankly,  sadly,  sympathis 
ing.  He  extended  his  hand. 

"Good  night,  Mrs. — Mrs.  Ventress,"  said  the  Doctor  rust- 
lingly.  "You  have  been  extremely  kind.  I  feel  that  we  owe 
you  an  apology — especially  for  the — for  these — for  the  atti 
tude  of  the  town." 

Certainly  one  should  never  have  distrusted  her  eyes.  Well, 
he  had  not. 

"No,"  she  said  slowly.  "In  some  ways  I  have  been  at 
fault,  myself,  I  think.  I  can  understand  Mr.  Pollock's  agita 
tion,  anyway.  I  feel — you  know  how  I  must  feel  about  this 
other — rumor — do  you  not?" 

He  bowed,  courteously. 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  gravely.    She  shook  his  hand. 

"I  should  have  known  anyway,"  he  said  to  his  brother-in- 
law  and  Coryat,  when  he  had  returned  to  the  living-room. 
He  shook  his  head  slowly. 

They  were  speculating  on  who  the  woman  upstairs  might 
be,  when  there  was  a  step  outside  on  the  porch. 

"The  constable?"  wondered  Uncle  Arthur,  with  his  usual 
Hair  for  the  dramatic.  But  it  was  Mr.  James  White,  pro 
prietor  of  the  Conestoga  House. 

"How'r'ye,  Doctor  ?  Met  Doctor  Cornelius.  Tells  me  you 
got  a  woman  here  rescued  from  the  river.  My  clerk  tells 
me  there's  a  woman  came  in  to-day  on  the  three  o'clock,  got 
a  room,  had  supper  at  the  hotel,  went  out  soon  after  supper. 

Stranger.  Ain't  back  yet.  It's "  he  glanced  at  his  watch. 

All  had  completely  forgotten  the  time.  "It's  a  quarter  to 
twelve.  Course  she  may  come  in.  He  didn't  know  who  she 
was,  had  only  a  suitcase.  Didn't  explain  herself  though  she 
paid  fer  the  room.  He  don't  know  where  she  went.  I'm 
going  on  home.  Told  the  night  clerk  to  watch  out  for  her. 
If  she  don't  come  in  we'll  give  you  a  ring  in  the  morning. 


MISS  ANN  COLE  AGAIN  263 

Registered  as  Miss  Ann  Cole,  New  York.  Find  any  identi 
fication  on  this  woman?" 

"No.  None.  She's  resting  now.  She  mustn't  be  dis 
turbed.  Miss  Ann  Cole,  did  you  say?" 

"Why,  but, — good  Lord,"  said  Coryat,  starting  forward. 

"What?" 

"Why  that's  the  name  of  the  woman  who — but  there's  no 
use  going  into  the  whole  thing  now.  It's  extremely  odd, 
that's  all.  Most  extremely.  That's  the  woman  who  sub 
mitted  that  manuscript !" 

He  tried  to  explain  what  he  meant.  James  White  shrugged. 
What  he  "got"  was  that  this  man  knew  something  about  her. 
Well,  he'd  stop  in  to-morrow.  They  could  straighten  it  out 
in  the  morning. 

"If  it  is  Miss  Ann  Cole,"  remarked  Coryat,  after  the  pro 
prietor  had  gone,  pacing  the  floor  and  ruffling  his  hair,  "This 
certainly  is  the  queerest !" 

He  retold  the  story  of  the  manuscript  to  Uncle  Arthur, 
who  knew  something  about  it,  vaguely,  from  Slade.  Dr. 
Gedney  listened  with  interest. 


Slade  and  Mrs.  Ventress  had  paused  at  the  latter's  gate. 
He  had  just  learned  who  she  really  was.  He  had  learned 
indirectly  that  Coryat  was  nothing  to  her.  And  as  she  stood 
there  and  talked  to  him,  every  tone  of  her  voice,  every  direct 
look,  though  entirely  kind,  showed  him  once  and  for  all  that 
— neither  was  he.  Of  course  she  must  know  that  he  had 
cared,  that  he  still  admired  her  tremendously.  He  tried — in 
the  blundering  way  of  men — to  put  something  into  words. 
The  peculiar  vanity  of  men,  and  especially  young  ones,  made 
him  feel  a  little  ashamed.  He  blundered  on  Bessie's  name 

"You  are  going  to  tell  her?"  she  asked  with  swift  divina 
tion,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  really  very  happy  about  some 
thing.  She  reached  out  her  hands  to  him  impulsively.  "Tell 
her,  tell  her,"  she  said,  and  shook  his  hands  up  and  down. 


264          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Her  eyes  sparkled.    "Good  night!    Good  luck!"  she  waved 
from  the  porch. 


"My  soul!  It's  a  quarter  to  one,"  said  Uncle  Arthur. 
Just  then  Slade  came  blinking  into  the  room.  He  had  taken 
a  turn  along  the  Axter  Road,  thinking.  His  hair  was 
tousled. 

"Well,  she  told  me  too,"  he  said,  looking  at  Uncle  Arthur. 
"But  you  didn't  tell  me,  Coryat !"  semi-rep roachf ully. 

"Didn't  have  much  time,  old  fellow.  And  I  had  to  keep 
her  secret,  till  she  chose  to  have  it  told.  By  the  way,  we 
think  that's  Miss  Ann  Cole  upstairs !" 

"Christmas!"  cried  Slade,  "How?" 

Then  that  had  to  be  explained. 

Uncle  Arthur  had  departed  groaning.  He  had  been  heard 
to  murmur  as  he  went  out  of  the  house  that  he  thought  posi 
tively  nothing  of  it. 

"I'll  sleep  on  the  sofa  down  here,"  said  Slade.  He  looked 
at  Coryat  out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  Of  course  it  was 
darned  nice  of  Mrs.  Ventress  to  be  so  happy  for  him  and 
Bessie,  but,  after  all,  she  needn't  have  been  quite  so  happy. 
But  then,  as  he  scratched  his  head,  the  humour  of  his  own 
wanting  to  have  it  both  ways  struck  him.  In  compunction 
he  prevailed  upon  Coryat,  finally,  not  to  give  up  his  room. 
Dr.  Gedney  and  Richard  went  upstairs  as  softly  as  possible. 
The  Doctor  paused  at  the  door  of  the  converted  sick-room. 
It  was  opened  a  crack  by  Bessie. 

"Good  night,  father!  Mrs.  Harris  insists  on  staying. 
We're  both  going  to  sit  up" 

"But  Bess,  that's  not  right.    Is  there  any  real  necessity?" 

"You  can't  be  sure.  We'd  really  rather.  And  Mrs.  Har 
ris  simply  won't  leave  me." 

A  dim  stout  form  appeared  behind  her. 

"Make  the  child  go  to  bed,  Doctor.  I'm  absolutely  all 
right.  I'll  watch.  Many's  the  time  I've  watched.  This 


MISS  ANN  COLE  AGAIN  265 

won't  be  the  first.  I  don't  mind.  I  can  sleep  all  day  to 
morrow  if  I  want  to.  There's  a  big  easy  rocker  here  and  a 
couch.  I  can  lie  down  if  I  want  to.  Make  the  child  go  to 
bed." 

"Well,  but  Mrs.  Harris,  this  is  an  imposition.    I " 

"Nonsense."  (all  this  in  the  same  stage  whisper.)  "To 
please  me,  Miss  Bessie.  Go  along.  I'll  call  you  if  there's 
anything.  It'll  be  all  right." 

Gently  she  pushed  Bessie  into  the  hall.  Bessie  turned  to 
whisper  with  her  for  a  moment  through  the  crack  of  the 
door. 


CHAPTER  XXX:    SLADE  FACES  THE  INCREDI 
BLE 

THE  Doctor  kissed  his  daughter  and  passed  into  his  own 
room.    Bessie  suddenly  knuckled  her  forehead  and  flew 
downstairs. 

"Slade !"  she  called  softly,  outside  the  closed  sitting-room 
door.  It  opened  wide. 

"What  is  it,  Bess?  I'm  making  up  the  sofa  here.  I'm 
going  to  sleep  down  here.  I  was  going  upstairs  to  see  if  I 
could  get  my  pajamas." 

Bessie  had  entered  the  living-room,  where  the  light  still 
burned. 

"Oh,  Slade!"  she  cried  almost  tearfully.  He  had  dragged 
the  sofa  over  nearer  the  largest  window,  which  was  wide 
open  and  screened.  He  had  left  one  sofa  pillow  on  it.  The 
others  remained  on  the  floor  where  the  sofa  once  had  been. 

"Oh,  Slade,  you're  not  going  to  sleep  that  way,  you  silly 
goop!" 

"Sure,  why  not?"  he  asked,  running  one  hand  through  his 
disordered  hair.  "I  did  think  of  a  sheet — but  we  only  had 
blankets  in  the  army !" 

"You  just  wait  a  minute  .  .  .  you  silly  goop!"  dimin- 
uendoed  her  voice  from  the  hall.  She  went  lightly  upstairs 
and,  in  an  incredibly  short  time,  returned.  She  brought  a 
pair  of  neatly  folded  sheets  and  a  pillow  which  she  held  in 
her  teeth  as  she  shook  it  into  a  clean  slip.  He  stepped  for 
ward  to  help  her,  but  in  a  moment  she  had  the  sofa  meta 
morphosed  into  a  bed.  "There!"  said  Bessie,  triumphantly. 

"It's  a  darn  shame  of  them  to  leave  you  to  sleep  down 
here.  Why  didn't  Mr.  Coryafc =?" 

"Oh,  but,  Bess!    He's  a  guest." 

266 


SLADE  FACES  THE  INCREDIBLE        267 

"Still ;  I  don't  care ;  it  was  mean  of  him.  Here,  I  brought 
your  things." 

She  tossed  his  bundled-up  wrapper  upon  a  chair. 

"Oh,  gosh,  thank  you  ever  so  much.  Lord,  I'm — so-o — 
slee-eepy !" 

Slade  flexed  his  arms  and  yawned,  entirely  unheroically. 
He  had  removed  his  tie  and  his  throat  showed  brown  in  his 
open  soft  collar.  Suddenly  his  attitude  snapped  back. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Bess.    But  I  am  sleepy." 

She  was  at  the  door.    "I  know.    Good  night." 

"Good  night.  Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Slade,  coming  over. 
Hastily  he  told  her  about  Adela's  real  name  and  about  the 
new  Ann  Cole  complication.  They  discussed  these  revela 
tions  in  low  excited  voices. 

Then,  "Well,  good  night,"  said  Bessie,  hovering  in  the 
hall.  "We'll  know  in  the  morning." 

"Good "  returned  Slade,  leaning  from  the  open  door. 

Suddenly  she  came  up  to  him. 

"You  know  I  think  you  were  a  perfect  wonder  this  even 
ing,  don't  you,  Slade?" 

He  bent  his  head.    "Oh,  no,"  he  muttered.    "Oh,  no " 

"Bess,"  he  said  muffledly. 

"What?" 

"I— oh,  Bess,  Bess—  I " 

He  stooped  suddenly,  further,  caught  up  her  small  sun- 
browned  hand  and  kissed  it  quickly.  He  held  it. 

"Bess, — I  love  you,"  said  Slade. 

An  instant  later  she  freed  herself. 

He  had  never  known  such  brightness  could  be  in  such  eyes. 
She  stood  holding  his  hands  for  a  breath,  gripping  them  with 
all  her  small  might.  She  turned  suddenly  and  was  flitting 
up  the  stairs.  "Good  night !"  she  whispered  clearly,  turning 
again.  She  was  gone. 

It  was  incredible.  He  stood  behind  the  closed  door  of  the 
living-room,  staring.  Staring  at  the  lamp.  It  was  simply 
incredible  to  be  so  happy.  How  blind  he  had  been !  But  it 
didn't  matter.  It  didn't  matter. 


268          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Everything  was  changed  ?  They  couldn't  be  the  same  peo 
ple  !  How  could  they  ?  How  the  deuce  was  it  ?  He  would 
be  afraid  ever  even  to  touch  her  again.  She  was  so  fragile, 
so  delicate,  ethereal.  .  .  .  She  was — inexpressible ! 

The  young  gentleman  in  love  sat  down  by  the  window. 
He  sat  there  without  stirring  and  without  closing  his  eyes 
until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  All  this  time  he  held  an 
unlit  cigarette  in  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  XXXI:   ADELA  THINKS  IT  OVER 

MRS.  VENTRESS  also  sat  by  her  window,  her  bedroom 
window,  till  the  small  clock  on  her  bureau  thinly 
chimed  twice.  She  had  almost  begun  to  doubt  her  own 
identity.  As  she  had  mounted  to  her  room,  heartily  glad 
for  Slade  and  Bessie,  her  mind  had  flashed  back  to  Coryat 
and  the  point  in  their  earlier  conversation  when  they  had 
been  interrupted  by  Uncle  Arthur. 

She  knew  now,  from  what  he  had  said  later,  about  this 
Miss  Ann  Cole  having  called  at  The  Colosseum.  But  she 
wondered  whether  he  could  possibly  have  thought  that  she, 
Adela,  had — what? — had  been  that  mysterious  claimant  of 
the  authorship  of  "The  Crystal  Castle"  ?  He  had  been  specu 
lating  after  she  told  him  she  had  written  something  down 

here.  If  he  had  dared  to  think But  she  dismissed  the 

idea.  Still,  Uncle  Arthur  had  believed  her,  for  some  min 
utes,  she  was  sure,  to  be  Gertrude  Gedney.  And  that  was 
what  the  town  certainly  believed,  now.  She  wondered  after 
all  just  who  she  really  was,  as  she  put  it  to  herself  in  intimate 
amusement.  She  was  most  certainly  not  Adela  Ventress ! 

Ah,  that  was  indeed  the  mystery !  A  phrase  from  Coryat's 
conversation  floated  strangely  into  her  mind.  "The  proper 
expression  of  personality — the  first  person  singular."  And 
again,  "I  want  people — not  types."  Well!  Her  lip  curled. 
She  had  expressed  her  personality,  with  a  vengeance.  Then 
she  had  tried  to  run  away  from  it — and  people  had  dis 
trusted  her.  She  had  found  them,  the  people — the  real  peo 
ple.  People  who  distrusted  her.  People  with  the  most  child 
ish  suspicions.  Singular  enough,  certainly!  Singular,  the 
whole  situation! 

No,  that  was  too  bitter.  Dr.  Gedney,  Bessie,  Slade,  had 

269 


270          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

not  distrusted  her.  Uncle  Arthur — in  spite  of  his  distrust — 
she  certainly  adored.  Mr.  Coryat  certainly  did  not  matter. 
She  had  been  furious  at  him  for  rinding  out  her  hiding-place ; 
but  that  was  over  now.  After  all,  she  supposed  he  was  inter 
ested.  Well,  she  had  discouraged  him  as  promptly  as  pos 
sible.  .  .  . 

What  an  extraordinary  thing  though,  this  drama  of  other 
lives.  Yes,  she  had  found  real  people,  she  had  begun  to  live. 
It  was  all  around  her,  the  real  material.  Had  she  been  cruel 
in  making  for  it  instinctively  ?  But  how  could  she  ever  have 
guessed  ? 

It  all  came  back  so  clearly  now.  .  .  .  That  morning  she 
had  gone  up  to  the  library  to  fill  in  a  certain  reference  she 
had  made  in  her  latest  manuscript  novel  to  the  time  of  the 
Boxer  outbreak.  She  had  spoken  of  her  hero's  exploits  in 
the  Rebellion.  But  she  was  shaky  as  to  details.  It  had  oc 
curred  to  her  that  any  New  York  paper  of  the  time  would 
give  her  enough  material  for  vivid  reference.  By  'bus  up 
Fifth  she  had  finally  reached  her  goal,  the  newspaper  room 
in  the  northwest  corner  of  the  Library. 

An  obliging  attendant  had  dumped  down  before  her  two 
enormous  brown-cloth-bound  files  for  the  year  1900.  She 
remembered  that  she  had  turned  dusty  brown-edged  pages 
not  without  lamenting  their  soilure  of  her  fingers.  She  could 
distinctly  recall  the  white  ceiling  of  the  long  room  with  its 
reflected  lighting  fixtures  like  inverted  helmets,  the  brown 
wall  of  file  on  superimposed  file  of  heavy  bound  newspapers, 
the  tables  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room,  with  slanted 
rests  of  open  papers,  where  early  habitues  stood  to  read. 
Outside  the  42nd  Street  Crosstown  cars  had  jarred  and 
clanked,  passing  footfalls  slurred.  There  was  a  constant  low 
murmuring  of  voices.  She  had  read  of  the  hottest  July 
seventeenth  in  the  history  of  the  Weather  Bureau  in  fifteen 
years.  There  seemed  to  have  been  a  great  many  deaths  and 
prostrations.  But  her  real  curiosity  had  been  the  at-one-time 
vastly  important  news  of  Tien-Tsin  captured.  The  Chinese, 
she  read,  had  invaded  Russian  territory  in  the  Amur  district. 


ADELA  THINKS  IT  OVER  271 

They  had  bombarded  some  unpronounceable  city.  Officials 
at  Washington  were  confident  that  they  would  definitely 
know  the  fate  of  the  envoys  in  a  day  or  two.  Li-Hung- 
Chang  had  started  for  Peking  and  had  been  appointed  Vice 
roy  of  the  Province  which  was  the  centre  of  the  Boxer  out 
break.  She  had  felt  close  upon  the  track,  now,  of  her  neces 
sary  material.  She  read  on. 

She  rustled  back  the  unwieldy  pages  as  she  pencilled  her 
notes.  The  particular  issue  before  her  was  now  the  first 
week  in  July,  and  her  eyes  had  strayed  to  other  phenomena 
of  the  summer.  It  was  the  year,  she  rediscovered,  when 
"The  Helmet  of  Navarre"  was  one  of  the  popular  novels. 
A  three-inch  advertisement  of  "Bonnie  Briar  Bush"  in 
formed  her  that  "The  Country  is  Flooded  With  Scotch 
Whiskey."  The  King  of  Italy  had  been  assassinated  at 
Monza.  Amos  Rusie  had  remarried  his  wife,  the  male  shirt 
waist  was  coming  in,  Sparklet  bottles  were  popular,  and  a 
sea-horse  on  an  exhibition  pier  at  Atlantic  City  had  given 
birth  to  one  thousand  baby  sea-horses.  Poring  over  such 
elegant  trifles,  on  one  page  that  bore  the  usual  lists  headed 
"At  the  Hotels"  and  "Arrival  of  Buyers,"  her  novelist's  eye 
had  halted  before  the  merest  scrap  of  an  A.  P.  despatch : 

GIRL  RUNS  AWAY 

She  could  still  see  the  head,  "Tupton,  Pa.,"  it  ran — and  the 
date.  Some  such  collocation  of  words  as 

Gertrude  Gedney,  only  daughter  of  Dr.  Charles 
Gedney  and  Mrs.  Gedney  of  this  town  was  found 
missing  from  her  home  this  morning.  She  had  left 
a  note  for  her  parents,  explaining  her  action,  the 
contents  of  which  remain  unrevealed.  Miss  Gedney 
was  high-school  valedictorian  this  June.  She  is  of 
average  height,  with  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes. 

The  words  had  fixed  her  attention.  It  was  some  time  be 
fore  she  had  turned  the  page.  Unaccountably  this  curt  mem- 


272          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

orandum  of  implicit  tragedy  had  held  her  eye.  Turning 
many  pages  in  a  reverie  she  found  herself  again  at  the  list 
of  heat  prostrations  for  that  memorable  day  in  July.  Her 
eye  had  carelessly  strayed  down  it.  She  remembered  now — 
why,  she  remembered  that  she  had  been  attracted  by  an  odd 
name  in  it — a  man's  name,  one  that  struck  her  mind  with  a 
queer  euphony.  .  .  . 

Could  it  be  possible? 

She  believed — that — that  was  it!  The  name.  Why,  she 
believed  it  had  been  "Roger  Ventress" !  Now  she  put  her 
hands  to  her  head  and  concentrated.  Deep  lines  came  be 
tween  her  brows.  She  concentrated  with  all  her  power. 

"Overcome  at  Wall  and  William  Streets;  Hudson  Street/' 
the  accompanying  text,  from  somewhere,  floated  back  into 
her  consciousness.  All  the  hospitals  to  which  the  sufferers 
from  heat  collapse  were  taken  were  so  listed. 

So  that  was  how  she  had  unconsciously  concocted  that 
name  of  hers ! 

The  "Adela"  though?  Adela.  Adela.  She  could  not  ac 
count  for  it.  It  must  merely  have  been  that  same  author's 
feeling  for  names  of  a  queer  euphony.  .  .  .  She  remembered 
having  used  the  name  for  two  separate  characters  in  several 
of  her  novels.  She  had  always  rather  fancied  it. 

Well,  it  was  certainly  a  night  for  revelations ! 

She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  window-frame,  en 
veloped  by  the  thick  August  darkness  that  flowed  in  upon 
her,  with  the  heavy  scent  of  flowers  and  the  tiny  sawing 
underhum  of  insects. 

She  felt  the  faint  throb  of  a  coming  headache.  She  had 
felt  it  that  morning  at  the  library,  she  remembered,  after 
having  turned  over  all  those  pages.  She  had  leaned  back 
uncomfortably  and  put  her  hands  to  her  blurring  eyes.  Her 
novelist's  imagination  had  conjured  up  the  picture  of  a  slim 
figure  hurrying  through  hot  fields  to  the  squat  brown  build 
ing  of  a  junction  station.  Gertrude  Gedney,  running  away. 
Why?  Tupton.  Gertrude  Gedney.  "She  is  of  average 
height,  with  brown  hair  and  brown  eyes."  How  serviceable ! 


ADELA  THINKS  IT  OVER  273 

How  could  you  find  any  lost  girl  through  any  such  descrip 
tion! 

What  would  it  be  like  to  return  to  such  a  town  after — 
twenty  years  ?  In  the  state  wrought  by  Terrill's  book,  she  had 
fancied  herself  this  girl,  returning.  She  wanted  to  get  away 
from  them  all,  from  her  infernal  literary  reputation,  any 
way.  She  had  also  wanted  to  escape  Coryat's  attentions  that 
had  grown  a  bit  too  assiduous.  Coryat.  She  had  not  yet 
quite  forgiven  him  for  the  slight  suspicion  she  believed  he 
had  harboured! 

Her  novelist's  imagination  had  begun  to  revel.  Suppose 

she  should  try  it  and  see — pretend .  Oh,  heavens  no, 

that  would  be  too  cruel, — well,  just  pretend  to  herself.  She 
would  not  pry  into  the  affairs  of  these  Gedneys,  if  they  were 
still  living.  But  she  would  like  to  see  Tupton.  It  was  a 
whim.  But  she  would  like  to  see  Tupton. 

She  certainly  had  the  money  to  indulge  herself  in  whims 
if  she  wished.  Her  friend  Phil  Brmston,  of  the  Park  Ave 
nue  Bank,  could  advise  her  as  to  how  to  arrange  things  finan 
cially. 

So  she  actually  had  done  it.  She  wanted  to  get  away. 
Why  not  Tupton  as  well  as  any  other  place?  Her  friend, 
Ethel  Aspern,  had  not  at  all  understood  her  desire  for  Tup- 
ton,  but  she  had  agreed  to  receive  a  certain  Mrs.  Ventress's 
mail  from  that  place.  Mr.  Duffitt's  first  letter  had  come  to 
her that  horrible,  ludicrous  man!  There  had  been  an 
other  conference  with  Phil.  Phil  had  taken  over  the  trans 
action  of  the  renting  of  a  house — very  kindly.  What  an 
enormous  help  he  had  been ! 

She  had  rented  the  Battell  House,  furnished,  until  the  -first 
of  November.  They  were  contemplating  a  summer's  visit  to 
their  daughter  in  Oswego.  Phil  had  attended  to  making 
Mrs.  Ventress's  references  impeccable.  He  had  even  himself 
paid  a  flying  visit  to  Tupton  as  a  side  trip  to  a  business  jaunt 
to  Philadelphia.  Phil  and  Ethel  had  always  stood  by  her; 
Phil  had  been  his  best  friend — the  best  friend  of  Ethel's 
brother,  Lawrence. 


274          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

If  Lawrence  had  lived.  .  .  . 

No,  she  would  never  have  dreamed  of  impersonating  Ger 
trude.  She  had  immediately  rejected  any  such  fantastic 
idea.  Yet  she  had  indulged  her  creative  imagination  fa? 
enough  to  pretend  to  herself  she  was  Gertrude  returning,  as 
the  Meldon  Valley  Railroad  bore  her  into  the  town.  Any 
such  private  theatricals  had,  however,  ceased,  of  course,  the 
moment  she  saw  Bessie.  Since  then  her  only  idea  had  been 
to  help.  And  yet,  she  had  been  mistaken  for  Gertrude  after 
all! 

How  utterly  irrational  life  was !  How  queer  that  Ger 
trude's  own  adopted  sister  had  become  her  most  intimate 
friend.  And  how  strange  that  Richard  Coryat  should  mix 
himself  up  in  all  this  again.  She  could  never,  never,  never, 
of  course,  tell  the  Gedneys  that  she  had  chosen  Tupton  out 
of  an  idle  curiosity  and  in  a  mood  of  whim.  The  motives  had 
been  innocent  enough,  with  no  cruel  intention,  but  her  mo 
tives  had  already  been  enough  misunderstood.  She  did  not 
know  whether  she  could  ever  make  Uncle  Arthur  quite 
understand  about  the  name  either — the  name,  Ventress.  But 
she  would  try. 

The  one  thing  she  deeply  regretted  was  that  the  now  prob 
ably  long-dead  or  far-flown  Gertrude's  story  was  being  re 
vived  in  connection  with  this  Roger  Ventress.  That  hurt 
Dr.  Gedney  cruelly,  she  could  see.  It  had  worked  Uncle 
Arthur  nearly  into  a  state  of  hysteria.  It  was,  undoubtedly, 
a  fantastic  and  puerile  slander.  But — well,  she  would  try  to 
see  if,  through  some  way  of  showing  sympathy,  she  could 
not  help  Dr.  Gedney. 

And  then  there  was  this  woman  who  had  just  nearly 
drowned  herself.  Who  on  earth  was  she?  Well,  at  any 
rate,  no  one  at  all  connected  with  this  particular  tangle  of 
lives.  .  .  . 

Aa-ah,  well !  Goo-ood  Heavens !  That  was  two  o'clock 
striking ! 


CHAPTER  XXXII:    AWAKENING 

IT  was  four  hours  later  that  the  woman  in  Slade's  room 
upstairs  stirred  and  sat  up.  Mrs.  Harris  sat  humped  in 
the  big  rocker,  snoring  gently.  The  pale  woman  in  the  bed 
felt  wonderingly  of  her  dark  hair,  so  carefully  and  neatly 
braided.  She  put  one  hand  over  her  forehead.  She  looked 
around  the  room  rather  wildly.  She  did  not  at  all  under 
stand.  What  was  this  room,  where  was  this  house,  who  was 
this  woman? 

Mrs.  Harris  opened  one  eye.  She  blinked  sleepily.  Then 
she  gave  a  prodigious  sigh. 

"Awake,  dearie  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Harris.  "Better  go  to  sleep 
again  now.  There!" 

"Where  am  I  ?" 

"You're  safe,  dearie.  You're  all  right.  It's  so  early  yet. 
You  get  your  sleep  out." 

"But — but — I  don't — don't  want  sleep.  I  want — where 
cm  I?" 

"Well,  now,  dearie,  you  know — something — er — hap 
pened." 

The  woman  in  the  bed  stared  at  her.  Slowly  something 
dawned  in  her  eyes.  On  an  indrawn  breath,  a  desperate 
shivering  sobbing  began  to  shake  her.  Her  right  hand 
clenched,  went  to  her  mouth.  She  continued  to  stare  at  Mrs. 
Harris  and  to  sob  convulsively. 

"There,  there,"  said  Mrs.  Harris,  stirred  to  her  depths. 
She  was  by  the  woman's  side,  her  stout  arm  about  the  shaken 
shoulders.  "There,  there,  dearie.  It's  all  right." 

"Oh — oh — oh — o-oh!"  desperately  sobbed  the  woman. 

"Does  it  come  back  to  you,  dearie, — does  it  come  back? 
Well,  don't  you  mind  now, — don't  you  mind !" 

275 


276          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Why  are  you — but  why  are  you  so  kuk-kuk-ki-ind  ?" 
sobbed  the  woman. 

"There,  there,  dearie,  really  you'd  best  sleep !" 

"But  I  can't  sleep— I  can't— I  tell  you  I  can't.  I  tried  to— 
I  tried  to — oh,  why,  why,  why  didn't  you  let  me?"  coughed 
the  woman  hoarsely. 

"Well,  dearie,"  said  Mrs.  Harris  practically,  drawing  up 
the  big  rocker,  seating  herself,  and  possessing  herself  of  the 
white,  blue-veined  hand  that  quivered  upon  the  light  blanket, 
"Perhaps  you'd  better  talk,  then,  if  it  will  help  you.  Try 
to  talk  low.  I'll  listen.  I  understand." 

The  woman  continued  to  stare  at  her. 

"But  you  know  all  about  it,"  she  said  finally.  "You  know 
all  about  it.  Did  you — did  you — get  me  out?" 

Her  eyes  widened  as  she  stared ;  and  then  a  croaking  sound 
escaped  her.  Her  mouth  writhed.  It  was  laughter.  She 
had  visualised  Mrs.  Harris  as  rescuer,  plunging  into  the 
river.  She  could  not  help  it.  ... 

But  she  as  quickly  extended  her  hand,  with  a  lovely, 
pathetic  gesture.  "Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,"  she  said,  her  voice 
much  more  normal.  "I  guess  I've  been  a  little  crazy.  I  do 
think  you're  most  extremely  kind  and  good.  I  was  deter 
mined  I'd  end  it.  And  here  I  haven't.  Just  another  instance 

of  the  complete  irony ."  She  shrugged.  "I  see.  I'm 

meant — for  some  villainously  inexplicable  reason — just  to 
go  on  with  it,  interminably.  Oh,  very  well.  I'm  sure  you 

meant  the  best.  You  couldn't  know.  But "  A  further 

realisation  crept  into  her  face.  Again  she  looked  around  the 

room.  "But — you  see  I  was ,"  vaguely.  "You  see  I — 

they  mustn't — why,  why  it  is — it  is — it's  so  familiar.  They've 
moved  the  bed,  but — oh,  oh,  oh,  it  isn't;  oh,  it  can't  be!" 

Then  "I  can't  bear  it !    I  can't  bear  it !" 

Her  hands  were  snatched  from  Mrs.  Harris,  her  head 
down  in  her  hands  again,  her  shoulders  shaking.  "Oh,  I 
can't,  I  can't,  I  can't "  she  raved. 

There  was  a  movement  at  the  door  of  the  room.  It  was 
slowly  opened.  It  was  Bessie. 


AWAKENING  277 

"Mrs.  Harris?" 

"Yes?" 

"I  heard.  Can  I  help?  Is  there ?  Oh!"  She  came 

timidly  into  the  room  in  her  grey  wrapper.  "She's  awake !" 

The  woman  in  the  bed  stared  at  the  girl  in  the  grey  wrap 
per,  with  her  disarrayed  dark  hair  and  her  face  still  flushed 
with  sleep. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  she  asked,  hardly  above  a  whisper. 

"Now,  now,  that's  Miss  Bessie — Miss  Bessie  Gedney," 
said  Mrs.  Harris  with  the  intention  of  being  soothing. 
"You're  all  right.  You're  in  Dr.  Gedney's  house,  Dr.  Ged- 
ney's  house  in  Tupton " 

"Oh,  I  guessed,  I  guessed.    Oh,  I  knew !" 

Suddenly  the  woman  raised  from  the  drowned  seemed  to 
take  a  tight  grip  upon  herself.  Though  her  shoulders  shiv 
ered,  her  arms  went  straight  down  by  her  sides,  the  white 
tense  hands  clutched  grimly.  Her  face  set.  It  was  very 
pale,  the  eyes  in  it  burned. 

"You're  Bessie,"  she  said,  after  a  minute.  Her  chin  rose. 

"You're  Bessie,  aren't  you — you're Oh,  aren't  you 

coming  to  me,  aren't  you  coming  to  me,  aren't  you ?"*' 

Her  arms  were  out,  white,  slender,  imploring.  Bessie, 
puzzled  and  amazed,  was  before  her.  She  saw  that  the  wom 
an's  face  was  working,  that  tears  were  in  her  eyes.  She 
knelt  with  a  swift  motion  and — they  were  in  each  other's 
arms. 

"Why,  I'm  Gertrude,  I'm  Gertrude,  Bessie,— I'm  Ger 
trude,  Gertrude  .  .  ,  !"  her  half-sister  was  sobbing  and  sob 
bing.  ,  .  . 


"Father,  I  must  speak  to  you." 
"But  just  a  moment,  Bess.    I'm  finishing  shaving." 
"But,  father,  I  must  speak  to  you !" 

Dr.  Gedney  came  to  the  door  of  his  room.    He  looked  out, 
still  drying  his  face  with  a  towel.    His  daughter  was  leaning 


278          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

against  the  door-frame.  Her  eyes  were  tearful,  her  voice, 
when  she  tried  to  speak,  husky. 

"Father,  finish  quickly ;  go  in  there.  It's  someone,  some 
one.  Oh,  father " 

She  grasped  his  arms  and  the  towel  and  clung  to  them. 
He  was  surprised,  embarrassed,  he  paled. 

"Listen,  father.  It's  nothing  terrible.  Don't  worry.  Only 
I'm  so  glad,  so  glad !" 

She  was  crying  in  his  arms,  quivering,  quivering  all  over. 

"Bess,  my  darling,  what  is  it?    Tell  me,  tell  me?" 

"It's,  it's,  it's,  oh,  it's  Gertrude,  father, — Gertrude  come 
home!" 


Slade  sat  up.    Someone  was  rapping  on  the  door. 

"Ye-es?"  sleepily. 

"Slade!" 

"Yes,  yes  indeed,  one  moment !" 

He  threw  his  wrapper  around  him. 

"Slade,  who  do  you  think  it  is  ?    Oh,  Slade !" 

He  also  was  enveloped  in  an  embrace.    His  head  swam. 

"Who  is  what?    What?    What?" 

"Oh,  Slade,"  Bessie  said,  as  quickly  releasing  him  in  a 
wave  of  shyness,  and  standing  away.  "I  couldn't  help  that. 
I'm  wild  this  morning — wild  and  happy.  It  isn't  any  of  your 
Miss  Coles  at  all,  you  great  silly !  It  isn't.  You  don't  know. 
You  couldn't  guess " 

"Angel,  what  are  you  talking  about?" 

"It's  Gertrude,  Gertrude,  Gertrude!  What  do  you  think 
of  it  ?  Just  what  do  you  ?" 


But  of  course,  it  was  Miss  Cole.  It  was,  to  be  exact,  Miss 
Ann  Cole  of  Jenison  Place,  New  York  City.  It  was  there 
fore  bound  to  be  the  lady  who  had  called  at  The  Colosseum 
office.  That  had  come  out  and  been  discussed  before  and 


AWAKENING  279 

during  breakfast.  Breakfast  that  Sunday  morning  was  a 
meal  that  no  one  remembered  how  they  got  through  after 
ward.  Which  is  a  frightfully  constructed  sentence,  but  so 
well  expresses  the  state  of  mind  of  everyone  that  I  shall  let 
it  stand. 

There  is  a  fine  old  rural  word  to  describe  the  feelings  of 
both  Slade  and  Richard.  They  were  both  completely  "flab 
bergasted."  As  for  Dr.  Gedney,  he  appeared  only  after 
both  had  finished  whatever  they  had  eaten — they  could  not 
quite  remember — and  were  lingering  in  earnest  converse, 
interrupted  by  Bessie,  over  their  second  cups  of  coffee.  Dr. 
Gedney  looked  more  amazed  than  he  would  probably  ever 
look  in  his  life  again.  His  thin  hair  was  all  astray.  He  had 
forgotten  to  brush  it.  He  had  also  forgotten  to  put  on  a 
necktie  and  no  one  thought  of  reminding  him  of  it.  He  sat 
down  like  one  in  a  trance  and  began  to  stir  his  coffee  with 
his  butter  knife. 

"It  is  certainly  Gertrude,  certainly  Gertrude.  It  is  per 
fectly  amazing,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

Bessie  was  radiant.  Nothing  could  dash  her  this  morning. 
She  kissed  Slade  behind  the  hat-rack  in  the  hall,  but  would 
not  have  him  follow  her  as  she  hurried  down  to  the  gate  and 
over  to  Mrs.  Ventress's.  However,  she  looked  back  so  fre 
quently  to  smile  reassuringly  that  she  ran  plump  into  Uncle 
Arthur.  Then  there  were  explanations  indeed! 


"My  soul,"  said  Uncle  Arthur,  standing  later,  porpoise- 
like,  before  the  fireplace.  "My  soul !"  he  puffed.  "My  soul, 
Mr.  Coryat, — my  soul !"  The  cigar  in  his  mouth  was  terribly 
maltreated.  He  kept  on  reaffirming  the  existence  of  his  in 
ward  and  spiritual  grace.  He  seemed  incapable  of  anything* 
consecutive. 

It  had  been  insisted  upon  by  Mrs.  Harris  that  the  lady 
should  go  back  to  her  interrupted  sleep.  By  tact  and  perse 
verance  that  only  Mrs.  Harris  knew  the  way  of,  she  had 


280          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

finally  been  soothed  off.  The  other  inhabitants  of  the  house 
hold  moved  about  on  tiptoe.  Annie  in  the  kitchen  was  com 
pletely  bewildered.  She  wondered  how  she  had  managed  to 
get  through  the  dishes. 


Bessie  stayed  at  Mrs.  Ventress's  a  full  hour.  She  had 
left  Gertrude  sleeping.  Within  that  hour  Adela  had  ex 
plained  to  her  what  she  and  Coryat  had  already  made  quite 
clear  to  Uncle  Arthur.  There  was  also  talk  about  Slade  on 
Bessie's  part — and  the  truth  came  out.  Over  and  above  that 
Bessie  and  Adela  put  their  heads  together  about  this  Miss 
Ann  Cole  complication.  Bessie's  opinion  of  Coryat  in  this 
connection,  with  regard  to  his  suspicion,  if  any,  of  Mrs. 
Ventress,  was  that,  if  that  were  so,  he  was  most  certainly 
insufferable.  As  to  Gertrude — that  was,  of  course,  the  news 
Bessie  had  burst  in  with. 

But  one  thing  was  evident,  Gertrude,  as  Miss  Ann  Cole, 
had  told  the  editor  of  The  Colosseum  that  she  was  also 
Richard  Terrill.  Coryat,  on  the  Gedney  porch,  racked  his 
brains  over  this  until  he  simply  gave  it  up.  Uncle  Arthur, 
puffingly  rocking  beside  him,  had  no  interest  in  that  side  of 
the  situation;  his  mind  was  completely  occupied  with  one 
cataclysmic  fact.  "So  Gertrude  has  come  back!"  he  kept 
repeating. 

The  proprietor  of  the  Cones  toga  House  found  him  dis 
trait,  simply  asseverating  that  it  was  Miss  Cole,  that  the  pa 
tient  herself  had  admitted  it,  and  that  she  would  most  cer 
tainly  remain  at  Dr.  Gedney's  for  the  present.  Her  bag 
could  be  sent  up.  (Dr.  Gedney  had  not  wanted  the  real 
truth  known  just  yet.) 


"I  was  going  to  be  very  angry  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Ven 
tress,  frankly  humorous,  to  Richard  Coryat,  when  he  ap 
peared  about  eleven,  having  been  able  to  offer  no  distraction 
to  Uncle  Arthur's  incessant  rocking  and  groaning,  and  hav- 


AWAKENING  281 

ing  become  too  intensely  sorry  for  his  still  unlighted  and 
now  utterly  chewed-up  cigar. 

"Yes,  I  was  going  to  be  very  angry  with  you.  You  have 
suspected  me  of  writing  that  story.  Don't  try  to  deny  it! 
I  don't  know  why  you  did — and  it  was  ludicrous — but  you 
did.  But  now,  since  we  all  seem  to  be  caught  up  in  a  perfect 
whirl  of  the  impossible  and  I'm  seriously  inclined  to  think 
we've  all  gone  crazy, — I  have  decided  to  forgive  you.  Won't 
you  sit  down?" 

"Thank  you.    Indeed  I  really  didn't!     How  could  I  pos 
sibly  know  who  this  Mrs.  Ventress  really  was  ?    The  name — 
there  was  another  suspicion  entirely  in  my  mind." 
"Oh,  all  right ;  we'll  wipe  that  score  off." 

"But  everything  seemed  so  baffling !" 

Mrs.  Ventress  smiled,  looking  away  from  him.  She  was  in 
full  possession  of  herself  to-day. 

'What  do  you  think?"  asked  Richard,  missing  that  smile 

only  for  the  playful  gods.    "You  think  she  actually  is ?" 

"Richard  Terrill?    Yes,  I  think  so." 

"But  how  on  earth " 

"Oh,  /  don't  know  how  on  earth !    For  that  matter  I 

don't  know  how  on  earth  anyone  could  write  so  well  as  that. 
But  I  might  have  known  it  couldn't  be  a  man.     (There  was 
a  thrust  in  this.)     I  simply  know  now  that  I  should  have 
known  all  along  it  was  a  woman." 
"Well,  it's  all  beyond  me." 
"Have  you  seen  her  yet  ?" 

"No.  Hadn't  even  a  glimpse  of  her  face  when  they  were 
carrying  her  in  last  night.  Is  she  pretty  ?" 

"How  typically  masculine,"  said  Mrs.  Ventress.  She 
laughed.  "Why  she  was  very  nearly  drowned !" 

"And     Slade    rescued    her "    he    mused,    seriously. 

"That's  another  strange  thing!" 

"Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  strange  things  this  morning,"  re 
marked  Adela.  "Plenty.  As  for  me,  I  don't  know.  Life  is 
rather  too  exciting  in  rural  communities.  I'm  beginning  to 
yearn  for  the  strident  monotony  of  New  York !" 


CHAPTER      XXXIII:      UNMISTAKABLY      MRS. 
VENTRESS 

GERTRUDE  was  able  to  talk  to  her  father  on  Sunday 
afternoon.  The  Doctor  even  thought  she  might  come 
downstairs  for  lunch  in  several  days.  Of  course  they 
wouldn't  worry  her  with  questions  about  the  Richard  Ter- 
rill  business,  not  just  at  first.  It  was  after  having  had  a  re 
freshing  sleep  on  Sunday  that,  about  four  in  the  afternoon, 
she  asked  for  her  father. 

She  was  quite  calm  now  and  a  little  colour  had  come  back 
into  her  face.  Her  brown  hair  was  braided  demurely.  Her 
brown  eyes  were  soft.  Dr.  Gedney  thought  sadly  to  what 
fineness  pain  and  trouble  had  chiselled  her  profile.  She  held 
him  with  her  eyes.  If  he  got  up  for  any  reason  and  moved 
about,  her  eyes  followed  him.  She  had  held  his  hand  quite 
simply  all  the  time  they  talked  together.  They  had  already 
gone  into  the  events  preceding  her  running  away.  Dr.  Ged 
ney  had  avoided,  however,  as  much  as  possible,  much  refer 
ence  to  Martha.  It  seemed  to  reopen  tragic  discussion  un 
necessarily. 

"But,  my  dear  child,"  he  said,  after  she  had  recounted 
some  of  her  real  experiences  in  England,  "why  did  you  al 
ways  tell  me  everything  was  going  so  well  ?" 

"Because — oh,  because,  father,  every  year  I  lived  I  came 
more  to  realise — well,  you  know — I  wouldn't  have  had  you 
worried  .  .  .  though  I  suppose  that  sounds  so  strange  a 
thing  to  say,  considering  .  .  .  considering  .  .  ." 

"No.  I  understand.  But  I  think  you  should  have  told 
me.  I'm  not  blaming  you  for  anything,  you  know !" 

"Oh,  Father,  but  don't  think — even  though — even  though 

-. — that  I  was  so — so  horribly  selfish  as — as " 

282 


UNMISTAKABLY  MRS.  VENTRESS        283 

"I  don't  mean  you  were  selfish,  my  dear  child.  Indeed 
I  don't." 

"I  know,  Father.  I  know.  But  truly  it  wasn't  that!  It 
was  just  that  I  hated  failure  so ;  that  I  wanted  to  show  I  had 
the  stuff  in  me;  that  every  year  slipped  and  slipped  away 
from  me  without  anything  to  show.  I  soon  had  to  give  up 
being  her  secretary.  She  was  a  very  perverse  and  demand 
ing  woman.  The  relationship  became  impossible.  I  got  odd 
jobs.  I  lived  along.  I  tried  my  hardest.  And  I'd  have  only 
been — I'd  have  only  been — such  a  nuisance " 

Her  voice  broke  on  that  last  trivial  word. 

"I  knew  of  Bessie.  I  wanted  to  help  her.  Maybe  you 
can't  believe  it,  but,  oh,  how  I  wanted  to  help  her !  And  yet, 
I  couldn't  give  up  still  trying  to  make  my  own  way,  to  make 
a  success  of  my  life.  Oh,  I  tried  a  lot  of  things !  And  I  tried 
to  write.  But  it's  amazingly  difficult — it  isn't  that  you're 
superior — it's  amazingly  difficult  to  write  if  you  really — if 
you  really — Oh,  if  you're  not  easily  satisfied  with  what  you 
do.  It's  difficult  to  write  the  kind  of  thing  that  gets  you 
ahead  financially.  It's  just  that  it's  so  difficult.  I  have  my 
own  talent.  I  wrote  a  book  that  was  published  in  England. 
I  knew  it  was  good.  It  was  good.  It  fell  perfectly  flat.  My 
vein  was  thin.  Then  I  got  sick.  Oh,  well,  that  all  sounds 
so  like  special  pleading,  I  know ;  but  you  see — you  see — my 
heart  was " 

She  broke  off.  He  hardly  heard  the  last  words.  Gradually 
what  she  had  said  was  borne  in  upon  him. 

"My  dear,  dear  child !    Can  you — tell  me  anything  more  ?" 

"Oh  yes,  I'll  tell  it  all,"  the  low  monotonous  voice  went 

on.    "When  I  ran  away Oh,  you'll  have  to  know.    That 

is  the  least  I  can  do — now.    There  was  a  man — a  boy — who 

came    here.      You    wouldn't   remember    him.      He I 

thought  I  loved  him." 

Dr.  Gedney  was  holding  her  hands  tightly. 

"Who  was  he,  dear?" 

"His  name "  the  monotone  hovered.    "His  name  was 

Roger  Ventress.    He  was  Judge  Lindon's  nephew,"  she  said 


284          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

tiredly,  "I  met  him  at  that  Institute  dance — at  my  Com 
mencement.  He " 

"Yes,  dear,"  said  the  Doctor,  but  his  breath  drew  in  aud 
ibly  and  his  teeth  clenched. 

"Oh,  it's  not  a  very  bad  story.  Just  that  he  persuaded  me 
to — to  run  away  and  meet  him — in  New  York.  There  was 
nothing  else  between  us  before — before  we  were  mar 
ried ." 

"Married  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  go  on,  dear,"  said  Dr.  Gedney.  The 
thin,  tired  voice  went  on,  pitiful  in  its  cadence. 

"Yes,  you  see,  I  met  him  in  New  York  and  we  were  mar 
ried.  And  then — there  was  a  terrible  heat-wave  in  New 
York  that  summer.  Roger  was  prostrated.  He  was  down 
town  and  he  fell  in  the  street.  I  never  used  to  look  at  the 
papers.  They  took  him  to  the  Hudson  Street  Hospital.  I 
didn't  know  where  he  was  for  twenty-four  hours.  I  was  all 
alone.  When  I  finally  found  out  and  called  up  the  hospital — 
they — they  told  me  Roger  was  dead." 

She  paused  again. 

"It  was — rather  horrible.  You  see,  our  marriage  was  such 
a  secret.  No  one  knew.  He  wasn't  ...  we  weren't  living 
together  just  at  first.  .  .  .  He  used  to  come  to  me.  .  .  .  You 
see,  he  was  going  to  fix  it  up,  but  he  had  to  break  it  to  his 
parents.  So  of  course  they  didn't  know  then.  And  they 
were  there — at  the  hospital ;  and  Judge  Lindon  too,  who  had 
come  on.  The  hospital  people  said  so.  And  Roger  was 
dead.  .  .  .  And  what  did  anything  matter.  ...  So  I  packed 
a  suitcase  and  left  the  apartment  and  hunted  up  a  boarding 
house,  a  cheap  one.  ...  I  called  myself  Jane  Bartlett.  .  .  "* 

She  stopped  to  smile  a  haggard  smile.  "I've "  she  said, 

"I've  had  so  many  names !" 

".  .  .  And  then,  you  see,  I  got  sick.  I  was  very  ill — for 
two  months.  .  .  .  I'll  never  forget  how  Mrs.  Sullivan — that 
was  my  landlady — mothered  me  and  saw  me  through.  .  .  . 
And  then  there  was  this  young  newspaper  man  who  lived  in 
the  same  house,  and  began  to  be  very  nice  to  me ;  and  through 
him  I  got  a  job.  .  .  .  And  it  was  really  through  his  encour- 


UNMISTAKABLY  MRS.  VENTRESS        285 

agement  I  later  began  writing.  .  .  .  Well,  finally  we  were 
engaged.  I  told  him  —  I  told  him  the  story  —  not  who  Roger 
was  or  about  Tupton  —  but,  the  story.  .  .  .  He  said  he  un 
derstood,  he  didn't  want  details.  ...  It  was  all  so  happy 
after  that  for  a  while,  for  a  little  while.  .  .  .  Then  —  we 
quarrelled.  .  .  . 

"You  see,  we  got  to  differing  over  what  we  both  considered 
fundamental  principles  of  life.  .  .  .  So,  though  we  both 
loved  each  other,  we  broke  off  the  engagement.  .  .  .  He 
went  away.  ..." 

Dr.  Gedney  could  not  look  at  her  face.  But  now  her  voice 
gathered  strength. 

"Well,  after  —  after  he  went  away  —  or  —  no,  that  isn't  fair 
either,  for  I  know,  too,  that  I  sent  him.  .  .  .  We  were  both 
proud  and  fierce.  I  don't  think  we  ever  really  differed,  —  it 
was  seeing  the  same  thing  in  different  lights.  And  —  I  always 
had  a  will.  He  had  too.  We  were  both  —  proud  and  fierce. 
...  It  was  one  of  those  things.  .  .  .  Well,  after  that,  I  did 
get  along  a  little  better  with  writing,  and  sold  a  few  maga 
zine  stories  ;  and  I  met  men  of  course,  but  no  one  interested 
me  in  the  same  way.  .  .  .  And  then  I  got  this  chance  to  go 
to  England.  .  .  .  That  was  when  I  wrote  you.  That  was 
when  I  wrote  my  novel,  under  a  pen-name,  'Richard  Ter- 


"Richard  Terrill!"  murmured  the  Doctor. 

"What?"—  a  little  plaintively. 

"Nothing,  dearest.    It's  all  right.    Go  on." 

"Oh,  in  some  way  you've  heard  of  it.  Well,  yes,  it  was 
mine.  It  never  made  anything  though.  No  attention  was 
paid  it.  Well  —  this  Spring  I  came  back.  ...  I  had  a  little 
money.  I  tried  again  to  do  something  with  my  writing.  I 
lived  in  a  small  two-room  affair  on  Jenison  Place.  There 
were  a  few  of  us  trying  to  write,  down  there.  We  scrabbled 
along  somehow.  You  see  —  well,  I  wasn't  very  happy,  —  and 
it  didn't  seem  to  matter  finally  much  what  I  did,  or  whether 
I  ever  got  anywhere  or  not,  —  for  I'd  never  been  able  to  do 
what  I  wanted  to  —  be  a  real  financial  success,  so  I  could 


286          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

come  back  to  you  to  really  help.  .  .  .  And  of  course — oh, 
Father, — you  will  know,  anyway,  how  unhappy  I  have  been !" 
"I  know,  I  know,"  he  said  huskily.  "My  dear,  dear  child !" 
"Well,  that's  it.  Then  I  did  get  a  magazine  interested  in 
a  story  that  had  gone  begging.  But  some  one  found  out  that 
it  was  like  'Golden  Windfall' — that  had  been  my  novel — 
how  they  knew  it  over  here  I  can't  imagine! — and  so  I 
couldn't  convince  the  editor  I'd  written  it.  You  see,  he 
wanted  proofs  that  I  was  Richard  Terrill.  And  I  hadn't  any 
real  proofs — except  a  copy  of  the  book — which  was  no  proof 
at  all.  .  .  .  The  firm  failed  long  ago,  and  one  of  the  original 
publishers  is  dead,  and  one — I  don't  know  where — and  I 
hadn't  kept  my  contract  or  royalty  statement.  .  .  .  There 
was  only  one  small  royalty — ever.  .  .  .  And  so  they  thought  I 
was  a  liar,  and  I  didn't  see  any  real  way  of  convincing  them 
I  wasn't  ...  at  least  for  a  long  while.  ...  It  was  the 
only  thing  I'd  ever  written  under  the  name  of  Terrill, 
'Golden  Windfall.'  .  .  .  Well.  ...  So  there  it  was.  .  .  . 
And  then,  of  course,  there  was  something  else — something 
else  that — that — well,  another  thing  that  had  hurt  me  awfully. 
...  So  I  thought  I'd  crawl  back  here.  I  even  stole  up  to 
the  house,  last  night — before.  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  sentimental 
and  cowardly — but — Fve  been  strange  to  myself  for 
months.  Everything  has  just  seemed  ...  at  an  end.  And 
now  you  see  the  irony — of  it  all !" 

Her  voice  died  out.  Her  profile,  with  locked  lips,  was 
white  and  grim.  Her  eyes  stared  brightly  at  the  wall.  It 
scared  Dr.  Gedney,  but  it  was  a  full  moment  before  he  could 
speak.  Then  he  began  to  reassure  her  slowly,  calmly,  quietly, 
with  infinite  tenderness.  Her  eyes  never  left  his  face. 

Fragmentarily  Slade  gathered  the  story  after  supper, 
partly  from  Dr.  Gedney's  jerky  remarks,  partly  from  Bessie, 
on  the  long  walk  they  took  out  the  Axter  Road.  Mrs.  Ven- 
tress  had  called  in  the  afternoon,  when  Dr.  Gedney  was  with 
his  daughter.  Coryat  gathered  little  from  the  Doctor  that 
evening.  Uncle  Arthur  came  over  for  a  little  while.  The 
three  men  sat  and  talked,  mostly  of  other  things. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV:  THE  PERPLEXITY  OF  BEING 
A  CROWD 

WHEN  it  was  announced  that  Gertrude  was  coming 
down  to  lunch  the  next  day — that  the  Doctor  thought 
it  would  be  quite  all  right — Coryat  asked  to  be  allowed  to 
take  lunch  at  the  hotel.  He  insisted.  It  would  be  their  first 
reunion;  Uncle  Arthur  was  to  be  there;  he,  Richard,  would 
certainly  not  intrude.  He  finally  had  his  own  way — to  their 
relief  as  well  as  his,  if  the  truth  be  told. 

It  was  not  till  dessert  that  the  pale,  frail,  brown-eyed  lady, 
sitting  upright  at  the  side  of  the  table  beside  Slade,  eating 
little  and  constantly  turning  her  eyes  from  one  to  the  other, 
was  able  to  say  very  much  to  them  all.  A  bold  sort  of  shyness 
seemed  to  hold  her  silent.  She  smiled  at  almost  everything 
they  said.  All  the  others  somehow  felt  themselves  amaz 
ingly  awkward. 

It  was  a  strangely  quiet  meal,  for  all  their  happiness. 
Uncle  Arthur  blew  his  nose  several  times  and  gazed  at  the 
ceiling.  His  rhetoric  had  quite  deserted  him. 

"Poor  Coryat,"  said  Slade  finally,  in  a  long  pause  that 
made  him  feel  uncomfortable.  "He  thinks  he's  been  per 
fectly  awful,  now  he  knows  Gertrude  wrote  that  story — 
awful,  I  mean,  because,  without  knowing  it,  he  made  old 
T.  B.  suspect  her." 

It  was  the  first  direct  reference  any  of  them  had  made  to 
the  manuscript. 

As  Gertrude  now  turned  her  head  toward  Slade,  startled, 
Bessie  began  to  explain. 

"You  see,  Gertrude  dear,  Slade  is  on  The  Colosseum,  that 
magazine  you  took  your  manuscript  to.  He  was  away, 
though;  out  here  in  fact,  that  day  you  came  in  for  it.  But 

when  he  got  back,  of  course  he  heard " 

287 


288          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Yes.  Oh,  yes  I've  realised.  I  suppose  'old  T.  B.'  is  the 
editor  I  talked  to.  But  now  you  believe  I  wrote  it,  don't 
you?" 

"Of  course.    We  all  know  it." 

"But  Slade  mentioned  a  man's  name — I  didn't  quite  catch 
it — the  man  who  suspected  I  was  imitating  Terrill;  or,  I 
mean,  that  it  was  by  Terrill  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Slade.  "Richard  Coryat.  He- 
Gertrude's  face  had  gone  as  white  as  wax.  She  seemed 
actually  to  sway  in  her  chair.  She  opened  her  lips  to  speak, 
and  closed  them. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  everyone  in  different  degrees  of 
alarm. 

"You "  said  Gertrude.     "You  said  his  name " 

"Why,"  said  Slade,  round-eyed,  "his — he's — I  mean,  it's 
Richard  Coryat.  He's  my  guest  here  now  you  know.  He 
would  have  been  here  to  lunch " 

"Richard  Coryat here ? 

"You — you  say — he's —  '  Gertrude's  stupefied  whisper 
went  on. 

One  moment  she  was  staring  blankly  at  Slade,  the  next 
she  was  bending  forward  over  the  cloth,  like  a  person  pre 
paring  to  say  grace, — slipping  sideways.  .  .  . 

Bessie  caught  her  in  her  arms. 

"Give  me  that  glass  of  water,  Slade,"  she  said  in  an  eerily 
controlled  voice,  as  they  all  leaned  forward.  "She's  fainted." 


Coryat  had  returned  to  find  that  Gertrude  had  gone  up 
stairs  again;  Dr.  Gedney  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't  speak  to 
him  a  moment  in  his  study.  The  Doctor  had  been  thinking 
considerably,  in  his  unrevealing,  taciturn  fashion.  Coryat 
would  know  a  Jane  Bartlett — or  he  would  not.  He  did. 

More  than  that,  he  was  thunderstruck  by  the  name.  The 
Doctor  had  not  revealed  it  yet  to  the  family.  Certain  things 
Gertrude  had  told  him  still  remained  secret  between  herself 


THE  PERPLEXITY  OF  BEING  A  CROWD      289 

and  him.  When  she  chose  to  tell — but  not  before.  Now, 
however,  the  mention  of  this  particular  name  had  seemed 
necessary. 

Coryat  came  out  of  the  study  finally  looking  somewhat 
haggard  yet  wildly  glad.  Dr.  Gedney's  hand  was  on  his 
shoulder.  Slade  had  gone  out  for  a  walk.  Bessie  had  been 
with  Gertrude.  Slade  was  furiously  cogitating.  When  she 
had  recovered  from  her  faint  Gertrude  would  say  nothing. 
Bessie  and  her  father  had  helped  her  upstairs.  Mrs.  Harris 
had  gone  home  that  morning. 

It  was  four  o'clock.  Bessie  informed  her  father,  in  a 
stage  whisper  from  the  head  of  the  stairs,  that  she  had  told 
Gertrude  that  Richard  was  in  the  house.  They  had  just  had 
a  talk.  Gertrude  wanted  Richard  to  come  up. 


The  room  was  dim.  Gertrude  was  sitting  up  in  the  large 
rocker.  Afternoon  sunlight  sifted  across  the  floor,  across 
her  knees,  through  the  closed  slats  of  the  white  shutters 
at  the  window.  Coryat,  from  the  doorway,  saw  a  white 
blurred  face,  a  figure  in  white — muslin  it  was — with  some 
sort  of  a  blue  scarf  about  her  shoulders.  Large  eyes  watched 
but  no  voice  spoke  to  him. 

Richard's  head  bent  as  he  went  toward  her.  He  stood  in 
front  of  her  with  his  eyelids  drooped  till  his  eyes  seemed 
closed.  Then  he  opened  them  and  their  eyes  met. 

He  was  on  his  knees  beside  her  chair.  Her  right  hand 
hesitatingly  disengaged  itself  and  rested  lightly  upon  his 
hair. 

"Oh,  Jane,  Jane,  Jane,  Jane " 


"Still,"  said  Gertrude  softly,  after  a  long,  long  while, 
"You  know  you  did  not  recognise  me.  You  know  you  didn't. 
,  .  .  .  That — that — hurt  my  feelings.  .  .  ." 

Considering  everything,  that  was  not  an  overstatement. 


290          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

Richard,  unaesthetically,  gave  a  loud  hysterical  gulp.  Jane — 
Gertrude,  I  mean — was  crying  quietly.  Well,  I  suppose  it 
must  be  confessed  that  Richard  was,  too.  Neither  did  it 
add  any  particular  coherence  to  the  situation  that  he  con 
tinued  calling  upon  an  entirely  mythical  female  alternating 
her  name  with  that  of  his  maker. 

"Oh,  Jane — my  Lord,  Jane — oh,  Jane, — oh,  my  Lord!" 
You  see  that  last  remark  had  been  Jane  all  over. 


"Well,  honestly,"  said  Slade,  sprawled  limply  in  a  big 
leather  chair  in  the  living-room — after  Bessie  had  told  him. 
"Well,  honestly!  No,  Bess, — you're  making  it  up!" 

That  nearly  precipitated  their  first  quarrel. 

"Slade,"  said  Bessie,  quite  seriously  for  a  moment,  "I 
thought  you  had  more  romance !" 

"Romance,  angel,  isn't  enough.  It  doesn't  seem  to  me 
to  cover  the  situation.  My  head's  spinning.  Who  is  this 
cousin  of  mine,  after  all?  I'll  bet  to-morrow  she'll  turn 
out  to  be  somebody  else.  Think  of  it !  Jane — what-did-you- 
say?" 

"Jane  Bartlett.  Really,  Slade,  you  shouldn't  make  fun 
of  her." 

"Make  fun  of  her,  angel!  Lord  knows  I'm  not  making 
fun  of  her.  I'm  just  trying  to  keep  my  reason.  Let's  see. 
Jane  Bartlett,  Ann  Cole,  Gertrude  Gedney,  and — why  not 
even  content  with  her  own  sex — Richard  Terrill!  Is  it 
any  wonder !  Oh,  I'm  not  being  unkind !  But  how  does  she 
think  of  herself?  Talk  about  multiple  personality  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  Talk  about  the  first  person  sing — 
golly,  that's  good!  The  first  person  singular!  Singular 
enough.  What  ?" 

Bessie  had  been  regarding  him  not  altogether  with  ap 
proval  ;  but  now  her  lips  twitched.  They  were  laughing  to 
gether. 

"But,  but  still,  Slade, — you  don't  seem  to  realise  that  it's 
so  real  to  them!" 


THE  PERPLEXITY  OF  BEING  A  CROWD 

"Oh,  you  bet  I  do !  Isn't  something  pretty  real  to  us  too  ? 
Listen!" 

They  could  hear  the  voices  still  murmuring  on  the  floor 
above. 

"What  I'm  really  worrying  about,"  said  Slade  twinkling, 
"is  how  this  is  going  to  hit  Uncle  Arthur.  Honestly  I  don't 
believe  Uncle  Arthur  will  be  able  to  assimilate  much  more 
of  this  without  a  stroke." 

When  Coryat  came  down,  looking  dazed  and  yet  strangely 
smiling,  Slade  repeated  this  to  him,  after  the  first  fitting  re 
marks  had  been  made.  It  was  appreciated. 

"I'm  taking  my  bag  down  to  the  Conestoga  House,  as  I'll 
be  staying  on  till  Jane — uh,  well, — I  mean  Gertrude,  I  sup 
pose — gets  absolutely  well." 

"But  look  here,  Richard,"  said  Slade,  "You  don't  mind 
do  you — since  you — since  it " 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  refer  to  my  fiancee  as  It,"  returned 
Richard. 

Slade  blushed.  "Well,  I  mean— didn't  Gertrude— well, 
long  ago — tell  you  anything  about — about  us — I  mean,  about 
her — her  family?" 

Coryat  shook  his  head. 

"She  told  me — do  you  know? — of  her  marriage,"  he  said 

in  a  low  voice.  "And  she  would  have  told  me .  But  she 

only  mentioned  the  man's  name  once  to  me,  as  I  remember. 
I  told  her  not  to  tell  me  anything  if  it  hurt  her.  But  now 
you  see,  that  was  the  name  I  was  trying  to  remember.  She 
was  always  Jane,  to  me — Jane  Bartlett.  But  when  you  said 
'Mrs.  Ventress',  it  worried  me — it  worried  me.  I  couldn't 
really  remember,  and  yet  I  remembered  dimly." 

Later,  when  the  conversation  took  a  lighter  turn,  Slade 
took  hold  of  Coryat's  arm. 

"Richard,  don't — don't  think  I'm, — well,  inopportunely 
jocular;  but  I  had  forgotten  the  'Mrs.  Ventress',  and  now — 
she's  going  to  change  her  name  again.  Do  you  see  what  I 
mean.  It  really  is  extraordinary  when  you  stop  to  think  of 


892         THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

it.    I  mean — I  mean — that  makes  six  names  in  all,  counting 
in  Ten-ill' !" 

"Yes.  it  is  so,"  said  Coryat,  with  a  rather  strained  smile. 
"Well. — tell  you  one  tiling.  Slade.  If  she  doesn't  want  to 
keep  this  one  till  the  end  of  her  life,  it'll  he  because  my  best 
is  no  good,  no  good  at  all.  Catch  me  boasting — any  more — 
but,  wait  and  sir !" 

"1  believe  you !"  answered  Slade. 

"By  the  way,"  he  added,  "in  this  rush  of  events  a  small 
matter — not  small  to  us.  though.— -is  likely  to  be  overlooked. 
We  haven't  told  anyone  yet — but— 

"You  mean."  said  Itessie  truthfully,  "that  you'-rr  told  no 
one  hut  Uncle  Charles,  and  I've  spoken  to  no  one  hul  (in 
trude  and  Adela.  Well,  now  we're  even.  Two  eaeli!" 

"Another  facer  for  Uncle  Arthur,  though,"  moaned  Slade 
mock-tragically. 


CHAPTER  XXXV:    UNCLE  ARTHUR'S  HOUR 

THEY  were  still  laughing  at  that  when  Uncle  Arthur 
loomed  upon  them  from  the  doorway. 

1'ut  his  expression  stopped  them. 

"I  am  glad  you  young  people  can  enjoy  the  situation,"  he 
boomed  sepulch  rally.  "I — I  have  been  enjoying  myself  in 
a  very  different  fashion." 

He  stood  before  the  fireplace  and  regarded  the  knuckles 
of  his  right  hatid.  They  seemed  to  be  somewhat  bruised. 

"Mrs.  Ventress  and  I "  he  began. 

Slade  stared  his  wonder. 

"Mrs.  Ventress  and  I,"  continued  Uncle  Arthur,  sol 
emnly, — "I  happened  to  meet  her  on  Sycamore  Street — we 
were  walking  along  the  Axter  Road.  I  was  escorting  her 
back  to  her  residence " 

"Oh,"  breathed   Slade  relievedly. 

Uncle  Arthur  breathed  also,  but  heavily.  He  had  flirted 
out  his  handkerchief  and  blew  his  nose  loudly. 

"I  shall  have  to  go  farther  back,  however,"  he  resumed. 
"The  information  came  to  me  recently  as  to  our  friend  Mr. 
Duffitt — namely,  that  he  has  had  a  considerable  hand  in  these 
recent  atrocious  rumours.  About,  for  instance,  Mrs.  Vent 
ress — being  Gertrude." 

"What!"  ejaculated  Slade  and  Bessie. 

Uncle  Arthur  merely  nodded. 

"I  entirely  agree  with  you.  But  such  rumours  have  been 
widely  spread.  You  can  imagine  what  your  Uncle  Charles 
and  myself  have  been  going  through.  But  now — now  I  have 
met  this  miscreant.  .  .  !" 

Uncle  Arthur's  jaw  had  become  prognathous. 

" 1  had  been  talking  to  Mrs.  Ventress  about  it.  She 

293 


294          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

informed  me  that  this,  this  person,  had  been  insulting  to  her 
upon  a  certain  fairly  recent  occasion.  She  did  not  tell  me 

much — but  I  could  gather She  had  decided  to  let  the 

whole  matter  drop.  She  told  me  about  it  simply  to  offer 
a  possible  motive  for  his  spreading  scandal.  Well,  sud 
denly "  Uncle  Arthur  paused  dramatically. 

"Suddenly  we  came  face  to  face  with — with  this — this 
creature,  turning  out  of  Poplar.  I  stopped  him.  I  charged 
him  with  the  entire  matter.  The  wretch  cringed  before  me. 
He  attempted  flight, — he  attempted,"  said  Uncle  Arthur,  "to 
turn  and  flee.  .  .  . 

"I  have  discovered  that  I  am  still  agile  for  my  years,  and 
(if  I  may  be  allowed  to  speak  of  it)  for  my  weight.  He 
— he  did  not  escape  me." 

His  face,  somewhat  pale  with  excitement  when  he  began, 
had  now  a  ruddy  satisfaction  upon  it.  "Why,  bully  for  you, 
sir!"  exclaimed  Slade,  choking. 

"Mrs.  Ventress,"  continued  Uncle  Arthur,  "attempted  to 
dissuade  me.  At  the  moment,  however,  even  at  her  re 
quest .  I — I  am  afraid  I  have  seriously  abraded  my 

knuckles  upon  the  miscreant,"  the  Colossus  said  thought 
fully.  "But,"  he  added  with  tremendous  unction,  "in  the 
words  of  the  fabled  Irishman — 'if  I  have  done  anything  I  am 
sorry  for  I  am  glad  of  it !' " 

"Oh,  to  have  been  there !"  Slade  grinned  afterward.  "But 
the  recital  in  itself " 

As  for  the  Coryat-and- Gertrude,  Slade-and-Bessie  busi 
ness,  that  all  came  out  later  in  the  evening.  They  spared 
Uncle  Arthur  any  additional  excitement.  Dr.  Gedney  broke 
the  news  to  him  in  the  study. 

"Charles,"  was  Uncle  Arthur's  final  wild  ejaculation,  "am 
I  dead,  or  living  in  a  dream?  I  think  nothing — I  mean, — 
heavenly  Xerxes!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI:    FINALLY,  THE  FIRST  PER 
SON  SINGULAR 

IT  took  Gertrude  two  weeks  fully  to  recover  her  strength. 
In  the  meanwhile  Mr.  Duffitt  had  gone  on  a  protracted 
visit  to  Barrack  Falls.  That  Autumn  he  removed  there  per 
manently.  He  never  swore  out  a  warrant  against  Mr.  Pol 
lock  for  assault.  So  far  as  Tupton  was  concerned  he  never 
applied  for  postliminy. 

Miss  Crome  kept  closely  to  her  domicile  even  when  the 
astonishing  news  about  the  real  Gertrude  Gedney  and  the 
real  Mrs.  Ventress  began  to  filter  through  to  the  town.  Miss 
Crome  felt  discomfited.  It  may  have  been  because  of  a 
description  Jason  had  given  her,  ere  he  departed,  of  Mr. 
Pollock's  state  of  mind.  And  then  Miss  Crome  had  run 
into  Rebecca  Stone  shortly  after  the  real  truth  was  known. 

"Miss  Crome/'  said  Rebecca,  stepping  implacably  in  front 
of  her,  "my  first  impulse  was  to  cut  you — cut  you  dead. 
But  I  won't.  But  I  should  like  to  tell  you  what  I  think  of 
you.  Well,  I  only  hope  you  will  never  speak  to  me  again, 
Miss  Crome, — never,  never,  never  speak  to  me  again !"  She 
had  turned  her  back  and  marched  off  with  flashing  glasses. 
So  exactly  like  Rebecca.  But — Rebecca  was  a  Stone. 

Upon  one  morning  of  her  convalescence  Gertrude  sat 
talking  to — well,  shall  we  continue  to  call  her  "Adela"? 
At  all  events  the  two  Mrs.  Ventresses  were  sitting  in  the 
living-room  of  the  Gedney  house  talking  things  over. 

To  be  even  more  exact,  Gertrude  was  lying  upon  the 
couch,  Adela — if  we  are  to  continue  calling  her  that — sat 
beside  her. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  call  yourself  Adela  ?" 

"For  much  the  same  reason,  my  dear,  that  you  happened 
to  call  yourself  Jane.  It  occurred  to  me!" 

295 


296          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

"Wasn't  it  strange— the  'Ventress'  ?" 

"Yes, — wasn't  it — but  haven't  you  ever  done  that — had 
a  name — or  a  phrase,  perhaps — sink  into  your  brain,  without 
your  knowing  it,  to  be  resurrected " 

"Oh,  yes,  often.    It's  queer." 

Silence. 

"I've  brought  you  a  book,  'Richard  TerriHV' 

Gertrude  raised  her  head.  Flora  laid  the  gaudily- jacketed 
volume  upon  her  lap.  She  took  it  up. 

"That's  the  kind  of  thing,  you  see.    Isn't  it  terrible !" 

"Well " 

"You  know  it  is.  But  will  you  give  me  a  copy  of  your 
book  some  day,  for  my  own.  I've  returned — I  suppose  you 
call  the  villain  'Richard' — I've  returned  him  his  own  copy." 

Gertrude  smiled. 

"If  you  really  want  my  book " 

"Why,  child,  child,  haven't  I  just  been  telling  you  all  it's 
done  for  me!" 

"No.  Not  all  that.  Look  how  you  can  write.  That 
story " 

"Oh,  the  story  I  took  to  Philadelphia  to  have  typed,  the 
story  I  thought  I'd  try  on  some  publisher  anonymously?  But 
that's  all  your  doing !" 

"Why,  it's  entirely  your  own!" 

"You  think  so?" 

"Of  course." 

"You  darling  to  think  so!  I  hope  so.  I've  sent  it  off 
to-day,  but  I'm  going  to  use  my  own  name  after  all.  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know  what  my  agent  will  think  of  it !" 

"What  does  that  matter.  It's  remarkable.  You — it's 
wonderful." 

"Then  maybe  I  have  accomplished  something,  after  all, 
by  coming  down  here?" 

"But  of  course  you  have.  Can't  you  see  it?  Why  you 
can  do  anything !" 

"Praise  from  Sir  Hubert  Stanley !    But  I  am  glad.    You'd 


FINALLY,  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR    297 

never  have  guessed,  would  you,  that  I  had  written,  so  much 
of— that!" 

She  touched  the  volume  on  Gertrude's  lap  lightly,  with  her 
forefinger. 

Gertrude  laughed. 

"But  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  run  down  your  work  this 
way.  I'm  sure  there's  a  lot  of  remarkable  writing  in 
this " 

Flora  shook  her  head  violently. 

Gertrude  went  on. 

"I  knew  your  name  of  course.  Who  doesn't.  But  I  cer 
tainly  never  thought  I'd  meet  you.  And  now  you  say  my 
book  had  all  this  influence.  It's  very  strange.  And  so  you 
sent  the  poor  movie  man  away?  I  somehow  feel  rather 
sorry  for  him." 

"So  did  I.  Poor  Mr.  Seelye.  But  imagine  his  ferreting 
me  out  like  that!  He  admitted  he  got  the  information 
through  a  stenographer  in  the  office  of  my  publishers,  a  girl 
he  happened  to  know,  who  blabbed.  Anyway,  I  gave  him 
some  supper.  It  was  rather  pathetic  the  way  he  talked  and 
talked  and  tried  to  convince  me." 

"Well,  to  think,"  said  Gertrude  dreamily,  "that  I  could 
ever  any  help  to  anyone.  Do  you  think,"  naively,  "that  I'm 
very  bad,  Flora?" 

"I  think  you're  perfectly  wonderful!' 

"I  don't.  I'm  pretty  bad.  Pretty  selfish.  Pretty—oh, 
but  it  is  all  right  now.  With  Richard." 

Flora  looked  up  and  away.  She  did  not  answer.  Not  that 
she  was  thinking  of  Coryat.  She  was  thinking  of  Lawrence, 
Ethel  Aspern's  brother.  She  was  thinking.  .  .  . 

"Jane,"  she  said  then.  "You  know  /  think  'Jane'  really 
suits  you  far  better  than  'Gertrude' ! — Jane,  I  want  to  tell 
you  something.  I've  never — told  it " 

"If  you  want  to,  Flora.    You  know  you  can  trust  me." 

"I  know.  Jane,  you — you  silly  darling you  ask  me  if 

I  think  you're  bad.  You!  Do  you  think  I'm  bad?  That's 


298          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

more  to  the  point  .  .  .  But  why  should  you  have  to  listen 
to  a  life-story?" 

"Tell  me.    Please." 

"Well,  I'll  spare  you  a  lot  of  it.  I  was  born  in  Chicago. 
My  family  were — very  wealthy.  I  was  very — very  society; 
came  out,  one  of  the  younger  set — all  that.  Then  I  decided 
one  day  there  was  nothing  in  it — wanted  to  make  my  own 
way.  The  only  person  who  retained  any  interest  in  me  after 
that  was  my  brother.  My  father — tried  to  do  what  is  known 
as  'putting  your  foot  down'.  My  mother  simply  thought 
I  was  demented.  I  did  what  I  wanted  to,  though,  and  went 
in  for  studying  illustrating.  There  was  a  man  at  the  school. 
Harry  Walker.  There  were  a  good  many  scenes  at  home 
about  that  time.  I  married  Harry.  My  parents  were  furi 
ous.  Marrying  Harry  almost  completely  estranged  me.  But 
I  saw  my  brother  occasionally. 

"Well,  there's  no  use  raking  up  the  details  of  an  unhappy 
marriage.  It  turned  out  that  way.  Harry  was  absolutely  un 
controlled,  irresponsible.  He  drank,  and  so  on.  I  got  to  a 
point  where  I  couldn't  stand  it.  I  consulted  with  my  brother. 
I  ran  away — to  a  friend  of  mine,  Ethel  Aspern,  in  New 
York.  My  mother  and  father  had  acted  so  badly  to  me  that 
I  wouldn't  have  thought  of  going  back  to  them. 

"My  brother  stuck  by  me.  Sent  me  money,  promised  me 
help,  financial  and  otherwise,  whenever  I  wanted  it.  I  had 
no  money  of  my  own,  wouldn't  have  taken  any  from  the 
family.  Ethel  helped  me.  A  friend  of  theirs,  a  Mr.  Brus- 
ton,  helped  me.  I  was  set  and  determined  to  repay  them  all 
they  had  lent  me  and  make  my  way  by  my  own  efforts.  I 
finally  did — through  that  kind  of  thing." 

She  tapped  the  book  on  Gertrude's  lap. 

"Still— I  began — differently.  You  see—  Well—  Well, 
tkere  was  Lawrence — Ethel's  brother.  Lawrence  and  I  fell 
in  love.  Lawrence  died.  Typhoid.  So,  that  was  that. 

"Well,  after  that,  I  just  went  ahead  blindly.  Determined 
to  make  money.  Determined  to  be  dependent  upon  or  under 


FINALLY,  THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR    299 

obligation  to  no  one.  Had  my  pride.  You  see — he  had  been 
the  One.  No  one  else " 

Gertrude  had  taken  her  hand  and  held  it  in  a  firm,  warm 
grasp.  Neither  of  the  women  spoke  for  a  few  moments. 
Flora  suddenly  turned  and  bent  her  head  to  Gertrude's.  For 
another  few  moments  they  sat  so,  nothing  said,  little  mur 
mured.  Then  Flora  detached  herself,  sat  upright. 

"I  had  written  to  please  him — at  first.  But  I  laid  all  that 
aside — as  he  had  to  be  laid  aside.  I  concentrated  on  becom 
ing  independent.  Hence!  And  now  I  know  that  writing 
that  kind  of  stuff  worked  me  round  into  the  state  where  I 
had  ceased  to  see  how  really  atrocious  it  was.  Then  your 
book  came  along,  your  Richard  lent  it  to  me, — another  singu 
larity.  And  so — here  we  are." 

"But  good  heavens,  7  think  you've  done  wonders.  Just 
what  7  failed  at.  Meeting  your  obligations  and  all  that.  I 
wasn't  courageous  or  clever  enough " 

"Clever  enough!"  Flora's  lip  curled.  "Well,  I  suppose 
it's  what  they  call  being  clever.  The  great  American  fal 
lacy.  No,  you  couldn't  write  badly  enough,  I  guess." 

"But  you  fulfilled  your  obligations?" 

"Yes,  in  a  way.  There  was  another — it  was  to  Lawrence. 
I  forgot  that.  But  that — I  see  now — since  the  worst  of  the 
pain  is  over — that  is  really  the  only  one  that  matters.  You 
see  he !  Well,  I'll  fulfil  it  yet!" 

"You  certainly  will.  And — 'bad'  ?  Well,  you  surely  know 
what  7  think  about  that!" 

"Thank  you!  God  bless  you,"  said  Flora  simply,  turn 
ing  to  her  and  taking  both  her  hands.  Then  she  leaned 
and  kissed  Gertrude  upon  the  forehead. 

"God  bless  you,  Richard  Terrill.  Here,  I  think,  comes  the 
other  Richard." 

"I  think  I'll  write  your  story  some  day,"  added  Flora  as 
she  rose  and  stood  looking  down  on  Gertrude.  Coryat  was 
coming  across  from  the  door. 

"Heavens!  Never!  There's .  Why,  I  don't  know 

what  7  can  ever  write  about  now,  I'm  sure,"  Gertrude  smiled 


300          THE  FIRST  PERSON  SINGULAR 

wanly.  "Too  much  has  happened  to  me,  actually.  You 
can't  write  it." 

Flora  smiled.  She  turned  to  Coryat.  She  beckoned  to 
him  mysteriously. 

"By  the  way/'  she  said,  quite  gravely,  in  a  low  tone,  "do 
you  know — come  over  here — I  have  a  theory.  I  really  sus 
pect  her,"  she  nodded  slightly  at  Gertrude,  "of  being  Richard 
Terrill!" 

Coryat  flushed,  as  she  suddenly  smiled  at  him  with  su 
preme  mirth,  her  lower  lip  caught  between  her  teeth.  "No, 
there,  I'm  unkind,"  she  said.  "But  I  couldn't  resist  it!" 

"No,  as  for  me,"  she  said  a  moment  later,  from  the  door 
way,  "I  forgive  everybody,  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven.  All 
I  am  aware  of  is  that  Richard  Terrill  Bartlett  Ventress  Cole 
Gedney  there  thinks  this  last  story  of  mine  is  really  good." 


Flora  passed  out  into  high  noon  on  Poplar  Street. 


THE  END 


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